


Bite the Gun

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (mainly in the past), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, F/M, Heist, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Grey Worm/Missandei, Minor Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Rape/Non-con, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, but neither is a Stark, pyrokinesis, unrequited love on Daario's side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: As the leader of a gang of thieves called The Dragons, Dany has etched out a place for herself in the mean streets of King's Landing. Known as the Mother of Dragons, she runs a gambling house in Flea Bottom as a front for some of her more illicit activities, but to many she's also known as Mhysa, for the kindness she shows other castoffs like her and her crew, including her second-in-command, Jon Snow.All the while, she nurses a grudge, a thirst for retribution against the very people who forced her into the shadows in the first place. When she's approached by someone finally offering justice, she's unable to say no, leading her and her crew on a journey that will force her to confront her past.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 105
Kudos: 800





	Bite the Gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliciutza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/gifts).



> Happy Birthday aliciutza! You've done so much for me over the past year or so, beta'ed every single fic, made me moodboards for them all, and cheerleaded me along the way, but more than that, you've been such a wonderful, ride-or-die friend to me <3 So I wanted to give you a little something in return, a long-ass one-shot no one asked for! lol But you seemed to like the little drabble it's based on, so I decided, hey, why not expand on it? I tried to incorporate things I know you like: fuckboy!Jon (well, as much as a fuckboy would exist in this kind of universe), with a bit of a Peaky Blinders aesthetic, kinda, if you squint ;) And I'm even (relatively) nice to Daario in this! I love you, and I hope you enjoy this story! It's entirely unbeta'ed and was written in like two weeks, so forgive me for any errors.
> 
> (Inspired by/loosely based on the fantasy novel, "Six of Crows" by Leigh Bardugo. Mind the tags, which include warnings for mentions of past rape and attempted sexual assault.)

* * *

“Well, that was a disaster.”

To any other woman, a disembodied voice greeting her in the dark might have been cause for alarm.

Dany Stormborn, however, was not easily frightened by voices in the dark. She was used to moving in the shadows, along with all the other criminals and undesirables this loathsome city turned a blind eye to. There, in the underbelly of King’s Landing, it was easier to do all the dirty work that needed doing.

She was also used to her second skulking in the shadows, lying for her in wait like the beast he’d been nicknamed after.

The oil lamp that sat on the desk flamed to life without her having to touch it, illuminating Jon Snow’s scarred yet infuriatingly pretty face. _White Wolf_ , they called him on the streets of Flea Bottom. It was the name she’d heard whispered through the city, in the pot-shops and gambling houses, long before she’d ever laid eyes on him. His whispered-about reputation was what had sent her in search of him in the first place; she’d easily found him in one of Flea Bottom’s many underground fight clubs, battered and bruised and relentlessly hammering his opponent unconscious. Afterward, when she’d approached him, his lip fat, eye blackened and fists bloodied, he’d regarded her with the look of a predator whose thirst for blood had yet to be slaked.

He didn’t scare her then, and he didn’t scare her now.

Jon squinted against the sudden flare of light, but only barely. Mostly, he was unfazed. She didn’t know why she bothered. With everyone else, she tried so hard to hide her abilities, to deny her nature, but for some reason, with him, she didn’t feel like she had to.

Raising his eyebrows at her, he flashed a droll smirk. “That plan didn’t work out quite the way you’d hoped, did it?”

She shut the office door behind her. “Thank you,” she said flatly, crossing toward the window. “As always, what would I do without your astute observations?”

“Might help if you tried listening to them for once. I told you you shouldn’t send Daario,” he continued, impervious to the fact that he was now talking to her back. He drummed his gloved fingers on the desk. “If he’s not dead by now, he’ll soon wish he was. The Gold Cloaks don’t have any scruples about torturing their prisoners.”

He didn’t need to tell her that. Dany was well aware of the City Watch’s unsavory tactics when it came to dealing with the petty thieves and criminals that plagued Flea Bottom. She didn’t have to imagine what they’d do with someone caught attempting to break into the Red Keep.

“Daario’s the best picklock in this city,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she stared out the window overlooking the cramped alleys and cross-streets of Flea Bottom. It was night, too dark to see much of anything, other than the street lanterns and the passing shadows underneath, but at the moment she didn’t want to see the smug look on Jon’s face.

“You didn’t need a picklock. You needed a ghost.” Arya, he meant. Dany knew he was right, but she was reluctant to concede his point out loud. “She’s your best shot at getting in and out of the Red Keep unseen.”

Jon leaned back in his chair at the desk. _Her_ desk, actually. _Her_ chair. His arrogance was part of his charm, and a part of why she’d recruited him to join The Dragons, her street gang of thieves–that, and his ruthless combat skills and his affinity for getting his hands dirty.

But sometimes, like now, his audacity really just pissed her off.

“If they catch her, they won’t go easy on her just because she’s a kid,” she argued, cutting him a look.

He shrugged. “They won’t catch her. They never do.”

Arya _was_ the best suited to break into Maegor’s Holdfast, the most secured fortress of the Red Keep. There was a reason they called her No One, and, having been trained by the Faceless Men from the time she was a child, she had talents Dany couldn’t even begin to understand.

But despite her reputation as a mercenary criminal, Dany wasn’t keen on sending a 17-year-old girl on her own into the most dangerous place in King’s Landing. Not for a measly crown, anyway. Dany shook her head. “It’s not worth the risk.”

Jon _tsk_ ed sympathetically. “But you risked Daario.” From inside his duster, he took out a slim box of matches, selecting one to roll between his fingers. He rarely used the matches, just kept them behind his ear. It was a weird tic of his, one she’d never interrogated him on. King’s Landing was hard and unforgiving, after all, and they all had their coping mechanisms. Who was she to judge?

“Daario knew the dangers.”

“He’s desperate for your approval,” Jon countered. “So desperate, in fact, he’ll risk imprisonment and death just so you can win this weird pissing contest you’ve got going on with the Lannisters. Why do you want that bloody crown so badly, anyway?”

She didn’t, not truly. Or, rather, it wasn’t _just_ about her family’s crown. It was about more than that. It was about taking back what belonged to her, bit by bit, brick by brick.

She didn’t answer him; instead, she folded her arms over her chest and scowled. “Is there a reason you’re here, aside from the pleasure you take in annoying me? Otherwise, I need to figure out how to retrieve my picklock.”

He tucked the match behind his ear and slipped the box back into his coat. “No reason, really,” he drawled, with far too much nonchalance. “Just found someone sneaking around in the House of the Undying. Someone looking for you, specifically. Thought you might be interested in meeting him.”

She frowned. There were all sorts of people looking for her, and the gambling hall she ran was the place they always started with, but usually, they were dissuaded from their mission once they came face to face with the Bull. Rarely were any of these people of enough interest or importance that Jon would vouch for them.

“Who?” she asked suspiciously.

With a smile, he stood. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

* * *

The House of the Undying was a relatively short distance from the Red Door, The Dragons' homebase; Dany had specifically chosen the building (aptly named for the bright red door out front) so she could keep an eye on her gambling house from her office window. She’d walked this path so many times, she could make it with her eyes closed.

Not that she would, of course; this was still Flea Bottom, the crime capital of Westeros. She never walked outside without a weapon, a dragon pin she wore that doubled as a shiv. Jon always had his revolver on him, strapped in his shoulder holster beneath his coat, as well as the knife he kept hidden in his boot, though he was still quicker to throw a punch than draw a weapon. A byproduct of growing up on the streets of Flea Bottom, having to scrap for everything or risk getting eaten alive by all the other wretches just looking to survive, too.

As for Dany, her childhood had been spent in Essos: first in Braavos then in Pentos; as a girl, she’d been too small and frightened to win any physical altercation on her own, and her brother Viserys had taken the brunt of their circumstances for her. Until he died, that was; then she’d been more vulnerable than ever. Easy prey.

Essos wasn’t exactly like King’s Landing or Flea Bottom, but in some ways, it was even more unkind to girls like her.

At the entrance to the House of the Undying, drunk patrons stumbled in and out, pushed along by the bouncer, Gendry—better known as the Bull for his efficient way of dealing with just the kind of crowd that frequented a gambling hall like hers. As she and Jon approached, Jon signaled to Gendry, who nodded and stuck his head through the door to call to someone inside. That brief lapse in attention was all it took; some lecherous opportunist, mistaking her for one of the prostitutes that worked this street, grabbed her arm and attempted to pull her to him.

“How much for the night, sweetheart—”

The words weren’t even fully out of his mouth before Jon had his other arm pinned behind his back, jerking up so hard his shoulder popped. The man shrieked in pain, but the sound strangled in his throat when Dany pressed the sharp edge of her dragon pin to his jugular.

“That’s the Mother of Dragons you’re touching,” Jon snarled. The man’s eyes widened in terror, and he immediately dropped her arm as if he’d been scalded.

“S-sorry, I didn’t know. I thought you were a-a—forgive me, Mhysa,” he blubbered, face red.

Dany moved closer, blood beading along the thin blade. “I don’t care if I was the Mother of Whores,” she threatened. “ _Never_ touch a woman until she invites you to. Got it?”

Suddenly, Gendry and another bouncer were there, roughly grabbing the man by his stained shirt. Jon released him with a hard shove, and the man whimpered, his arm hanging limply at his side. Gendry grimaced in apology. “Sorry, Mhysa. I’ll make sure he never steps foot in your establishment again.”

She shook her head, wiping off the prick of blood on her pin before fixing it back onto her coat. “Don’t worry about it.”

After handing off the drunk man to the other bouncer, who promptly bodied him into the street, Jon and Dany trailed Gendry inside. The gambling hall was thick with smoke; the card tables were full, and the ale and liquor flowed freely. Patrons noticed her as she passed by, lifting their drinks in salute, cries of “Mhysa!” following in her wake. She smiled at them but otherwise did not deviate from her path. They took the stairs to the second floor, which was just a suite of private offices reserved for staff business and, occasionally, special guests; the patrons were barred from venturing upstairs.

Outside one of the offices, Grey leaned against the wall, standing guard, though he straightened when he saw them. Grey was another member of The Dragons. He’d been one of the firsts, him and his now-girlfriend, Missandei. They’d traveled from Essos to Westeros with Dany years ago. Grey, like Gendry, was one of her muscle, and an excellent sharpshooter to boot. Missandei was a gifted linguist with a mind for money, and she oversaw the books for the House of the Undying. Any given day, that’s normally what she was doing, locked away in her designated office above the gambling hall, running the numbers, double checking and triple checking to make sure every ledger added up.

“How’s our honored guest?” Jon cheerfully inquired as they approached. Grey bowed his head to Dany in deference; he always did, no matter how many times she told him to knock it off.

“Annoying,” he grumbled as he opened the door for them. “Keeps asking for wine.”

Curious, Dany followed Jon and Gendry inside. Grey stepped in after them, firmly shutting the door behind him before moving to turn up the flame of a lamp that sat on the floor. The office was otherwise empty, save for an unused desk and a chair, which had been moved to the middle of the room. In it, bound by rope, sat a small man. A dwarf, really.

She stiffened; she knew who it was before Jon even yanked the burlap sack off his head. Just how many dwarves lived in King’s Landing? Many, perhaps, as it was a pretty big city, but there was only one her associates would go through this much trouble for.

Blinking in the sudden light, Tyrion Lannister squinted up at them. “Oh, well, now. That’s better,” he remarked, trying to shake his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes. “That sack made it quite hard to breathe, you know. You might want to consider that, unless your goal is to suffocate your captives to death.”

“What is this bastard doing here?” she asked coldly, and Tyrion bristled.

“I might be a dwarf, but the fact of my parentage has never been up for debate.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shut it, or you’ll get the bag again.”

“Jon,” Dany pressed, impatient. “Tell me why there’s a fucking _Lannister_ in my place of business.”

“We caught him sneaking around the card tables earlier,” Grey explained.

“I don’t know how he got in, honest,” Gendry interjected. “I know who he is. I never would have let him in, but he never came to the entrance.”

“I can answer that, if I may be permitted to speak?” Tyrion offered, and she glared at him, arms folded over her chest. He smiled. “Given my size, I find I can fit in places no one else would think to check. Like, say, any one of the many barrels that come in through the back door.”

She narrowed her eyes, annoyed. She didn’t appreciate her enemies being one step ahead of her. “Thank you. Now that I know where my blind spots are, I’ll be sure to fix them.”

“You’re welcome,” Tyrion said, as if he’d done her a favor. Her eyes were impossible slits at this point.

“Well, now that your demonstration is over, allow us to show you how to properly use the door. Gendry,” she said, who moved to comply, but Tyrion struggled against his restraints.

“Wait, I have a proposition for you,” Tyrion spoke quickly, then winced. “Seven hells, these restraints are uncomfortable.”

“Grey’s an expert at knots,” Jon said. He’d hoisted himself up onto the desk behind their prisoner, booted heels tapping lightly against it as he rolled a match between his fingers. There was an edge to his voice at odds with the haughty expression on his face. He didn’t trust the little man any more than she did.

Rolling his shoulders, Tyrion continued, “As I was saying, I have a proposition for you, Daenerys.”

She went cold all over. Everyone else seemed to take a collective breath in surprise as well. “How do you know my name?” she asked after a beat, her voice low and dangerous. Here, in King’s Landing, she was known only as Dany, or Mhysa, or Mother of Dragons, as her patrons had taken to calling her. If a Lannister knew who she was…

There was a gleam of triumph in Tyrion’s eyes. “I pay people to know everything there is to know about this city,” he explained. “And when a woman calling herself the Mother of Dragons shows up in Flea Bottom, well, you can imagine how it might attract some attention.” He gave her an appraising look. “Though I must admit, the dark hair is a decent enough disguise. Most people wouldn’t give you a second thought. I know the rest of my family certainly hasn’t.”

Carefully, she reached for her dragon pin, and Tyrion’s eyes tracked the movement. “No one else knows, I assure you,” he offered hurriedly, sensing the danger he was in. “Just me and my Spider.”

Dany shook her head, and Jon jumped down from the desk. “That’s two too many people, I’m afraid.” At that cue, Jon pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster and pressed the barrel to the back of Tyrion’s head.

Admirably, the little man managed not to panic, though that triumphant gleam had given way to fear. “I would strongly reconsider killing me,” he urged calmly. “My Spider knows I’m here, and if I don’t return, I’ve given him explicit instructions to divulge this very invaluable bit of information to the queen regent.”

Thumb poised over the hammer, Jon raised his eyebrow at her in question. “And how do I know you won’t tell them, anyway?” Dany asked Tyrion.

Relieved by the brief reprieve, he smiled. “As I’ve been trying to tell you, I think you and I have a shared goal.”

“Which is what, exactly?” She tilted her head, eyes flicking back to Jon. Reading her signal to stand down, he holstered his gun again.

“Simple: to see my sister get the comeuppance she deserves.”

She stared at him dubiously. “You wish to hurt your own family?”

“Yes,” Tyrion answered, and for some reason, she believed him. “Nobody hates Cersei more than I do, believe me.”

“Debatable,” Dany retorted tersely, and Tyrion smiled, conceding her point.

“Let’s not quibble. No doubt my lovely sister has made many enemies over the years who would gladly line up to spit on her corpse the day she finally croaks.”

This was growing tedious. “Forgive me, but I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to than to listen to your tales of sibling rivalry, so if you could hurry this up?”

“Yes, I know. Such as your friend who’s locked up in our dungeons at this moment, I imagine?”

Well. At least, that confirmed her lockpick was still alive. For now.

Seeing he’d hit on something, Tyrion smiled again. “I can help you get him out, if you like. Get you in and out of the dungeons, completely unseen by the guards.”

She stared at him, her face unmoving. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I would like your help.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Tell me why I would help a member of the family that ruined mine.”

“I can get you that family crown you seem to so desperately want—the Seven knows why, it’s quite ugly—and more.”

She folded her arms again. “What else is it you think I want?”

“Justice, I should think. For the wrongs done to you and your family all those years ago.”

She almost spat in his face. _Justice_. If she’d learned anything in her 23 years in this world, it was that if she wanted justice, she had to take it for herself. She couldn’t count on anyone else to give it to her. “And how do you propose to give me that?” she asked contemptuously.

For some reason, he looked uncomfortable. “I have some...highly sensitive information for you, but I’d rather not tell it to your whole goon squad. If we might be permitted to speak alone?”

Gendry bristled. “Who you calling _goon_ , Lannister scum?”

“Well, specifically, you,” Tyrion shot back.

Gendry growled, starting to advance, but Dany held up her hand to stop him. “Let us have a moment alone. There’s nothing stopping me from telling you all afterward, anyway,” she said.

Tyrion huffed. “I trust that you won’t, just like you will have to trust that I’ve told no one else _your_ secret either.”

Grey stepped forward. “Mhysa, I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

“Really, what could I possibly do, trussed up like I am?” Tyrion asked, exasperated.

“I won’t be alone. Jon will stay,” Dany assured the others, looking back to Tyrion. “If that’s permissible with you.”

Tyrion considered this, trying to twist his head around to look at her second. “I suppose I can allow that. He looks shifty enough. Nobody would believe him, anyway.”

“Says the man selling out his own family,” Jon said with a shrug.

Dany sent Gendry and Grey out of the room, waiting for the door to shut before turning to Tyrion again. “Alright. Speak,” she demanded. “You’ve got five minutes to sway me, or your Spider friend will be fishing you out of the cut come morning.”

Tyrion seemed to struggle with himself before relenting. “Joffrey is not the late king’s son. He’s the bastard seed of another man. He has no claim to the throne, which means Cersei’s rule as queen regent is also illegitimate.”

She stared at him, disbelieving, before her eyes flitted to Jon. Even he looked stunned. “What—” She shook her head. “How do you know this?”

“Because I know who the real father is,” Tyrion answered.

“Who?”

But he shook his head, his face hard. “I won’t— _can’t_ say. Not yet, at least. But what’s important is who the real father is _not_. And the absence of a legitimate heir would create a succession crisis that would throw this city into chaos.”

She raised her eyebrows. “This justice you speak of sounds more like vengeance.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Call it whatever you like.”

“Well, this has been a very riveting story,” Jon said, leaning back against the desk, crossing one foot over the other. “A fantastical one, at that. Who would believe it?”

“I have the proof,” Tyrion insisted. “I would give it to you.”

“At what cost?” Dany asked.

“All I ask of you is a favor. A small one, really.” She pressed him to continue with one look. “I’m...looking for someone, someone very dear to me. Her name is Tysha. She went missing years ago, and I thought her long dead. But recently I have learned she’s still alive.” He cleared his throat. “When we were young, we had eloped in secret, but my family did not approve of our relationship. They took her from me and sent her away. She was a whore, you see. But we were in love.”

“Mate, hate to tell you, but that’s what they all tell you,” Jon said, but Tyrion shook his head.

“I loved her, and she loved me, I know it.”

“That’s very sweet,” Dany said impatiently. “What does that have to do with us?”

“I need your help getting her back. She’s a bit stuck in Essos at the moment. Pentos, specifically.”

Apprehension prickled along her neck. “And what can I do for her that you can’t?” she asked.

He eyed her cautiously. “You see, she was forced into service. As a bed slave.” Suddenly, she understood before he even said the rest. “To a man I think you know...quite intimately. Khal Drogo.” At her silence, Tyrion said, “As a member of the royal family, I can’t go there myself, not without raising questions. And I don’t trust anyone I know with this information. Seeing as you know him, I’d hoped you could persuade him to...release her. As you once did for yourself.”

Her voice was hard when she spoke. “You’re mistaken. Drogo did not release me because I asked. He sold me to someone else.”

Tyrion faltered but tried again. “Still. You have an in with him. He wouldn’t listen to me if I were to ask for her release, but he might be more receptive to a familiar face. And money, of course.”

“And if he’s not? Amenable to releasing her, I mean.”

“Well.” He smiled faintly. “You’d already be inside his palace.”

Dany snorted. “You want us to steal her for you?”

“You are a gang of thieves, are you not?”

“Usually, our targets are a bit more attainable.”

Tyrion curled his lip. “You’d risk your life for an insignificant bauble like a crown, but not a person?”

She went rigid, and Jon’s hand came down on Tyrion’s shoulder, startling him. “I suggest you shut up now,” he said lowly, squeezing in warning.

Tyrion ignored him, appealing to her. “This is what you truly wish to do, isn’t it? You help women all around the city, give them jobs in your establishment so they don’t have to keep selling themselves if they don’t wish to. You give all sorts of people second chances. That’s why they call you their _Mhysa_ , isn’t it?”

Jon’s hand was in his coat again. “I told you—”

Dany interrupted him. “If I do this for you, you would give me this proof you claim to have?”

Tyrion looked relieved. “Of course. I would pay you, too. A Lannister always pays his debt.”

“How much?” she asked.

“Two hundred gold dragons. Plus, two hundred for the khal.”

She couldn’t keep her face from reacting to that sum. It was an awful lot of money…

After a long contemplative silence, she said, “If I did this, I would require at least half the money up front.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. “You can’t really be considering doing this.”

Why he should look so hurt, she had no idea. She stiffened her jaw, lifting her chin. “That’s not for you to decide, is it?” she said, steel in her voice. He scowled, running a hand through his hair before turning away from her.

Looking back to Tyrion, she nodded curtly. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

* * *

“They’re late.”

Dany checked the pocket watch around her neck. They _were_ late. Still, she tucked the watch back into her shirt, not quite ready to worry just yet. “Just give them a little bit longer,” she told Gendry, who was pacing the length of her office in the Red Door.

Agitated, he shook his head. “Something went wrong. I knew I should have gone with her.”

Jon, who sat at a small table playing a game of cards with Grey and Missandei, spoke then. “If you’d gone with her, then something _definitely_ would have gone wrong. Relax. She’ll get it done.” Studying his hand, he flipped a card down on the pile, and Grey and Missandei groaned, tossing their cards down in defeat. Grey grabbed the pile and began reshuffling.

Gendry stopped in his pacing to glower at them all. “We shouldn’t have trusted that dwarf. He probably set her up, and now she’s in the dungeons with Daario—”

“Or I’m right here, you ass.”

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the doorway where Arya stood, stooped slightly under Daario’s weight, his arm slung over her shoulder. They all stood, but Gendry reached them first.

“Seven hells, you’re OK,” he exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. The embrace forced her to let go of Daario, who stumbled against the doorway with a wince.

“No, don’t trouble yourself, I’m fine,” he griped as Grey reached him, taking his arm, but Daario flinched and grabbed his side with a hiss. “Careful. Think they broke a rib or two.”

Grey and Missandei carefully helped him limp to the table where he slumped down into one of their vacated seats. Arms folded over his chest, Jon gave him a onceover.

“To be honest, I expected you to look worse.”

Truthfully, Dany had, too. But other than the rib, a black eye and a few other minor contusions, he looked like he’d be fine in a few weeks’ time. His blue eyes lighted on her as she moved closer. “Are you OK?” she asked, just to be sure. She refrained from touching him, knowing he would misinterpret any gesture as misplaced affection.

Jaw tight, he nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I failed you, Mhysa.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. I’m just glad Arya got you out.” Her gaze shifted to Arya next, who’d managed to squirm out of Gendry’s embrace. “So, the intel we got was good?”

She nodded, slipping out of her hooded coat she wore for her missions. “The passageway next to the Blackwater Rush was where you said it would be. It took a while, but I eventually came to the chamber with the dragon mosaic. I found the key in the brazier. There are a lot of tunnels down there, and it’s easy to get lost, but I eventually found the black cells.”

“No one saw you?” Dany asked, and Arya shrugged.

“A guard did, but I took care of him. I used his face and led Daario out of the dungeon without further incident.”

Daario grunted. “I fucking hate when she does that.”

“Everyone does, until they need me to do it,” she snapped back.

“Thank you, Arya,” Dany said, cutting through the tension. “Missy or Grey, can one of you get some water and a washcloth for Daario?”

“I’ll get it,” Missandei offered, slipping out of the office.

“So, what’s the next step?” Jon inquired. He’d posted up against the wall, braced on his shoulder. While they’d waited for Arya to return with Daario, he’d stripped down to his vest and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt, gloves still on, revolver tucked in his holster. Idly, he fingered a match before sliding it behind his ear.

Dany took a deep breath, leaning against her desk, the edge gripped in her hands. “Well. Tyrion held up his end of the bargain, so now we hold up ours. I will go to Pentos and retrieve his friend and then bring her back to King’s Landing.”

“Only you?” Jon asked, eyeing her. Missandei returned then, water sloshing over the top of a bucket as she carried it to Daario. Sitting down next to him, she dunked a washcloth into the water then wrung it out before gently cleaning the dried blood from Daario’s face. To his credit, he didn’t flinch.

Dany hesitated. “It’s a one-person job. What needs to happen—no one else needs to be there.”

Missandei’s hand stilled as she cut an alarmed look her way. Daario waved her hand away. “Wait. What’s the job?” he demanded. “Seems I missed quite a lot while I was locked up.”

Dany quickly filled him in about Tyrion’s proposal. Before she’d even finished, he was already shaking his head. “No. You can’t go to Pentos alone. I’m coming.”

She rolled her eyes, irritated by his gallantry. “Your ribs are broken. You can barely walk. You’re not much good to me in this condition.”

“It’ll be fine by the time we reach Pentos.”

“No,” she said, her tone brooking no further argument. “You’re not coming. What I need is for you to lie low and get better.”

Carefully, Missandei lowered the washcloth into the water, her eyes still fixed on Dany. “I’ll come with you. Daario is right. You shouldn’t go alone, and...the khal might be more welcoming to a female companion.” Despite the resolute way she held her chin, Dany could see the fear in her amber eyes. It was a fear Dany understood all too well.

She shook her head, softening her voice. “No, Missy. I’m not putting you in that situation, never again.” Missandei pinched her lips together, nostrils flaring slightly. She wanted to argue, but she knew it was futile.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Daario insisted, frustrated.

Jon pushed off the wall. “She won’t be alone. I’m her second. Of course, I’ll be at her side.”

He held her gaze as he spoke, and after a moment of internal deliberation, she nodded in agreement. Daario scoffed under his breath but said nothing more, scowling in silence as Missandei continued to clean him off.

Arya dragged out the other empty chair to sit backwards in it, arms folded over the back of it. “So, what about the rest of us? What do we do while you’re gone?”

“I need everyone to go about their usual business as if nothing’s out of the ordinary. It’s best if no one knows I’m gone, just to be safe. Missandei will be in charge while I’m away.”

Her friend looked up in surprise. “Really?”

Dany nodded. “I trust you to handle the House of the Undying in my absence.” Missandei smiled, deeply pleased by this gesture. “If anyone asks for me, deflect. Tell them I’m busy or sick or something. I’d just rather no one know where I’ve gone, at least not until Jon and I are back. Got it?”

She looked at everyone, who nodded their confirmation. Daario was the last to do so, albeit grudgingly. When she looked to Jon next, he grinned.

“I’ve never been on a ship before. This should be fun.”

Rolling her eyes, she dismissed them all. Before Arya could leave the room, however, Dany called her back. Arya approached her, gray eyes inquisitive as Dany waited for the others to clear out. Once they were alone, she looked at the younger girl.

“I do need you to do something for me while I’m gone,” Dany told her. “And I need you to do it discreetly.”

* * *

Jon hung over the gunwale, puking his guts out.

Dany almost felt bad for him. Almost. She’d tried to warn him seasickness was no joke, especially for someone who’d never stepped foot off solid ground before, but he’d been cocksure and unconcerned, as always. It was nice to see him brought down a peg or two.

She came up beside him as his vomit splattered against the side of the ship, the dark seawater instantly washing it away. She had been queasy as well the first few hours underway, before her stomach finally settled. “Still having fun?” she asked conversationally, keeping her eyes trained on the horizon. There was nothing but water as far as the eye could see; they’d been at sea for only a day so far, passengers on _Black Betha_ , but they still had a few more days, at least, before they reached Pentos.

Lifting his head, Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. The persistent breeze blew his black curls into his eyes, and she fought the sudden impulse to brush his hair aside for him. “I think that salted cod tasted better coming up,” he complained.

She laughed, earning a scowl from him. Ship food did leave much to be desired. “It helps if you keep your eyes on the horizon,” she suggested when she saw him looking down at the waves. He coughed and tried to do as she said.

“How many times have you made this voyage?” he asked.

She swallowed dryly. “Just the once, that I can remember, anyway,” she said after a moment, her voice even. “The first time, I was just a babe, so I have no recollection of that journey.”

He didn’t say anything to that, perhaps too nauseated to come up with a proper response.

The ship dipped again, less violently, but he held onto the gunwale. “You trust him? Tyrion?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “I never trust anyone completely.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Good. You’re smarter for it.”

Just then, the ship rocked with a particularly large swell. Behind them, the crew manning the rigging yelled to each other, and she and Jon clutched at the gunwale to keep themselves up right. The ship settled almost immediately, but Jon made a gurgling sound as he swallowed a blech. “Bloody hell,” he moaned.

Taking pity on him, she turned away from the sea. “Come on. I’ve got some hardtack in our cabin that might help settle your stomach.”

“Hope you got a sick bucket, too,” he grunted, but he pushed off the side of the ship and followed her belowdecks.

In their cabin, she shut the door as Jon collapsed on his berth with a groan, slinging his arm over his eyes. He’d stashed his duster in his trunk, along with his holster and gun. It was the first time she’d ever seen him without his gun, at least since he’d joined The Dragons. There were no real dangers aboard _Black Betha_ —nothing a bullet would stop, anyway.

Retrieving the hardtack from her own trunk, she knocked his leg out of the way so she could perch on the edge of his berth. Unfolding the cloth tucked around it, she broke off a large corner of the stale biscuit and handed it to him. “Here.”

Peering at her from under his arm, he took the offering from her and gingerly chewed on it before swallowing. “Thanks.”

Putting aside the rest of the hardtack, she reached for his hand. He seemed startled by her touch, but she ignored his reaction, grateful he still had his gloves on.

“Missandei taught me this trick,” she said matter-of-factly, pressing her fingers against his inner wrist, right between his tendons. His skin was surprisingly soft there. She tried to ignore that, too. “She’s from the island of Naath, so she was practically born with her sea legs. She sailed a lot before—well. Just before.”

Dany could feel the weight of his gaze on her and knew he was debating how much to pry. He knew the bare bones of her past, the select pieces she’d told him when they’d met three years ago. He knew who she was, that she’d been exiled to Essos after her father, the old king, had been killed, her family deposed by the Baratheons and the Lannisters. He knew she’d been on her own once her mother and then her brother had died, forced into a brothel in Braavos as a young girl, where, at 13, she was eventually bought by Khal Drogo and taken to his manse in Pentos to be added to his collection of bed slaves. Jon knew she’d been there for years until he’d eventually sold her to Astapor, where she met Missandei and Grey, who were also slaves.

When it came to her time with the khal, Dany was scant on the details. It wasn’t something she liked to remember, but the nightmares that visited her at night made sure she never forgot.

“What’s going to happen when he sees you again?” Jon finally asked.

“Drogo?” She effected a nonchalant shrug. “He will probably be pleased, I think. I was a favorite of his. He has no ill feelings toward me, anyway.”

“I don’t mean him. I mean you. What will _you_ do?”

She stiffened imperceptibly. Her lips thinned slightly, and she shook her head, keeping her eyes on her fingers on his wrist. “Nothing. I will be perfectly diplomatic in my dealings with him,” she said evenly. “He can’t do anything to me now, and I am not the same scared girl I was then. He doesn’t frighten me.”

With a scoff, Jon pried his hand out of her grasp and carefully set up, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the bunk overhead. “I know you’re not frightened. Nothing scares the Mother of Dragons,” he said, and the derision in his voice stung. He shook his head. “I don’t want you to be afraid. But, gods, shouldn’t you be _angry_? Don’t you want to hurt him for what he did to you? And then selling you, discarding you like you were nothing of consequence?” He licked his lips. “In Astapor—”

Her eyes cut to him. “Who told you about Astapor?” she demanded, growing angry, and he set his jaw stubbornly.

“Missandei,” he finally said. “Some of it, anyway. Grey, too.”

She stood up from the bed. She felt betrayed, which wasn’t fair, she knew. It wasn’t just her story to tell. Missandei and Grey—they’d been there, too, that day. They’d been slaves for much longer than she had been. That day meant something different to them than to her. She didn’t blame them for feeling differently. That was the day they’d been set free. But her—when she thought about it—

Jon was wrong. Some things still scared her.

Oblivious to her internal conflict, he tried again. “What you did—what you’re capable of doing. Why hide it? Seven hells, Dany, you should be _proud_. It’s incredible—”

“No, it’s not. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said harshly then tossed the rest of the hardtack to him. Catching it, he clenched his jaw shut. “You can have the rest of that. I’m going abovedeck to ask Davos when supper will be.”

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of their cabin.

* * *

They docked in Pentos four days later, under the guise of legitimate business. Davos Seaworth, who captained _Black Betha_ , traded crab and other goods between all four continents, and he often did favors for The Dragons, in exchange for free room and board for his crew at the House of the Undying whenever they were docked in King’s Landing. Dany didn’t want the magisters or the khal to know she was in Pentos, not until she’d made the first move. She knew she had a reputation that preceded her. Especially in Essos.

She and Jon paid for lodging at an inn, then she paid a courier to deliver a letter to the khal, signed with her name. Her real name. As she suspected, Drogo’s response came well before sunset, inviting her to visit him at his manse that night.

“Will he be expecting you to have a guest?” Jon called from the bedroom as she stood up in the tub, the tepid bath water sluicing down her naked body. After five days at sea, she was grateful to have finally washed the grime and crusted saltwater off her skin.

Wringing out her hair, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body. She pulled out the stopper with her toes to let the water drain, then stepped out of the tub and crossed the bathroom to open the door. “Knowing the khal, I thought it best not to give him advanced warning,” she replied.

Jon lounged on one of the beds, one arm behind his head as he flipped a match through his gloveless fingers. At the proximity of her voice, his eyes darted toward her and snagged, lingering on her petite frame. Despite the towel, she felt completely naked under his gaze. Her breasts expanded with a sharp breath, and she turned away, moving toward the sink.

It’d been years, but sometimes her reflection still startled her. The dark brown wash she used to conceal her too-conspicuous silver hair had faded slightly and needed a touch-up at the roots. Even so, it surprised her just how different she looked as Dany Stormborn. Her violet eyes, she could do nothing about, but on their own they weren’t enough to rouse suspicions. Most people simply assumed she came from Starfall or perhaps somewhere more distant, like Lys.

After towel drying her hair, she combed the knotted waves straight. Hearing Jon come up behind her, she glanced at his reflection over her shoulder as he posted against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, watching her smudge some kohl around her eyes. “If the khal does have Tysha, how do you plan to get her out of there?”

Dany shook her head. “I plan to walk her out. Absconding with her is the fall-back plan.”

“You think the money is enough to convince him to let you have her?”

Dany dabbed some tinted lip balm across her lips next. “Maybe. That’s what negotiations are for,” she said simply before rubbing the residue tinting her fingers into each cheek.

Jon made a scornful sound in the back of his throat. “And this khal is a man to negotiate?”

She shrugged. “I’ve changed since I was here last. Maybe he has as well.” _Not bloody likely,_ she thought, but she was banking on that.

Shaking his head, Jon pushed off the door and moved farther into the bathroom. She tried to ignore his presence at her back, finding a vial of perfume in her rucksack. Some paid dock workers had brought their trunks to their room earlier in the day.

“You don’t normally bother with all this pomp back in Flea Bottom,” he remarked, picking up the vial to examine. He gave it a curious sniff.

Her mouth twitched in amusement. “Why? Do you wish I would?” she asked mockingly as she dabbed a spot of the perfume between her breasts

Licking his lips, he caught her gaze in the mirror. “I don’t need any of these trappings to fuck you, Dany,” he said bluntly, and her smile vanished. Before she could respond, he needled her again. “What else do you plan to offer him, exactly?”

Pressing her lips together, she forced her eyes away from his and dabbed some more perfume on her neck, just behind each ear. “I’m not offering anything I’m not comfortable giving,” she said evasively.

“Dany—”

“You’re here as my second, Jon, not my keeper,” she snapped, glaring at his reflection. “Remember that.”

With a snarl, he turned away from her. “Fine.” He stomped over to the tub, shrugging off his braces. Her head snapped toward him as he pulled his shirt tails out of his pants and peeled it off over his head.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, gaping at him. He turned toward her, his scarred chest bared to her.

“What does it look like? I’m taking a bath,” he said innocently as he unbuttoned the fly of his pants. “I can’t accompany you to a _khal’s_ palace covered in filth.”

“I’m still here,” she reminded him. Bending over, he shoved his pants down his legs, leaving him standing in just his smalls.

He shrugged. “Then get out. Or don’t.” Just as he pushed down his smalls, Dany pivoted on her heel and stalked out of the bathroom, her face hot as she slammed the door behind her.

* * *

The confidence Dany’s careful camouflage had given her fled the moment she was standing before Drogo’s opulent manse. She’d stopped walking as she stared up at it, feeling once more like the 13-year-old girl she’d been the first time she’d been brought here. Her knees went weak, her skin suddenly clammy despite the light silk dress she wore. The humid night air was a balmy kiss on her bare arms and shoulders, making her shudder with remembered discomfort.

It took Jon a moment to notice she was no longer at his side. Turning around, he frowned. “You all right?” he asked, walking back to her. She must have been as pale as a ghost; his face hardened at whatever he saw in her expression. “We don’t have to do this. We can think of another way.”

She almost agreed, the words already on her tongue. She was stupid to come back here. Stupid to think she’d bested her demons in the time she’d been gone, when the truth was, she’d only been running from them.

She hated feeling weak. It was why the Mother of Dragons persona was so crucial to her; she wore it like a shield, so no one would see the scared little girl underneath, so no one else would think to take advantage of her, ever again. Absently, she touched the dragon pin at her breast for reassurance. It was a reminder of who she was now: Dany Stormborn. Mother of Dragons. Mhysa to all.

Dropping her hand, she squared her shoulders and took a deep, tremulous breath to steady herself. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Shaking his head to himself, Jon fell in step with her again as she continued up the long stone walkway to the manse. Two guards stopped them at the entrance, their arakhs crossed in front of them. A couple of Drogo’s bloodriders, she guessed, though she didn’t recognize either of them as the bloodriders from the last time she’d been there.

Dany spoke to them in Dothraki. “The khal is expecting me for dinner. Tell him Daenerys is here to see him.”

The guards were surprised by her fluency in their tongue, but they recognized the name and allowed Dany and Jon to continue inside. In the open, expansive foyer, two more guards searched them for weapons. Fixing her eyes on a grounding focal point, she gritted her teeth as rough hands groped beneath her breasts, spanning her ribcage. The guard ignored her dragon pin, seeing nothing but a pretty little trinket. His hands moved lower, sliding up and between her thighs beneath her skirt with abrupt, perfunctory consideration. She was relieved when his hands finally left her, finding nothing of importance.

The guard searching Jon, however, quickly located the holstered gun beneath his duster. At the man’s displeased scowl, Jon smiled. “Surely you wouldn’t fault a man for carrying protection in a strange city.”

“And who do you need protection from?”

The familiar, booming voice sent a chill skittering down Dany’s spine. She and Jon looked toward the grand marble staircase where the speaker was walking toward them. At the sight of him, she drew in a choked breath. Khal Drogo looked just as she remembered him: tall and imposing, skin tanned dark by the Essosi sun. The only difference was his black hair was longer than it had been, the braid reaching down past his waist now. Bells woven into his hair tinkled with each step. His clothes were rich and luxurious, gold accoutrements and gemstones adorning his belt and sandals.

When he stopped before them, he smiled knowingly. “Not from me, I hope.” His black eyes fixed on her, and his smile slowly turned predatory. “Ah, my _khaleesi_ ,” he greeted her, and she went rigid at that mockery of a title. It meant _wife of the khal_ , but of course, she’d never been more than his slave, whose services and privileges, what little they might have been toward the end of her time with him, never extended beyond his bed. The only real benefit had been that he’d refused to share her with his bloodriders, like he did the other women. Even so, she’d been beyond grateful for that, a mere crumb of his preferential treatment.

Drogo leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and she held still, scarcely able to breathe. When he leaned back, he considered her again, his expression turning serious. “I almost did not recognize you with the dark hair.” This time, he spoke completely in Dothraki to her.

She swallowed against the tightness of her throat, finally finding her voice. “I wanted to try something new.” She made sure to speak in the Common Tongue, so Jon would understand.

Drogo frowned, and when he spoke again, it was in their tongue. “I prefer the silver. It made you...special.”

“I prefer this,” she said firmly. He blinked at her, as if surprised, then smiled patronizingly.

“Ah. There is the _khaleesi_ I remember.” His tone turned biting. “Spirited but ultimately more trouble than she is worth. A fact poor Kraznys mo Nakloz learned firsthand, I am told.” She went rigid as he looked to Jon. “Who is your companion?” he asked, his tone far less welcoming.

Dany took a deep breath. “This is my friend. Jon Snow. Jon, this is Khal Drogo.”

Drogo’s smile turned taunting. “ _Friend_. I am sure you know a little something about that fiery temperament of hers. Nothing a man with a strong hand cannot temper, however.”

Jon’s expression darkened. “In my experience, any man who tries to temper her ends up regretting it.”

Drogo raised his eyebrows and looked at her again. If anything, he seemed amused. “I see. Those men never learned the proper way to handle her, then.” He smirked, directing his words to Jon again. “I can show you pointers, if you like.”

Seeing the familiar stormclouds gathering on her second’s face, Dany tried to redirect their conversation. “Perhaps we can move somewhere more comfortable to talk,” she suggested. “I have some business I would like to discuss with you.”

“Ah, yes. Your letter was vague. Intriguing, nevertheless. I am curious what is this proposition you have traveled so far to bring me. We can eat first, then talk. I hope you came with an appetite.” In Dothraki, he directed his guard to dispose of the gun. The man tapped his chest before pivoting on his heel to do just that. Drogo gave Jon a scornful look. “I do not care for guns. I find them quite unimaginative. Any fool can fire a gun, while the blade, on the other hand, requires more discipline and skill.”

Jon shrugged. “Good thing I’m also pretty handy with a knife.” He held Drogo’s gaze for a moment before forcing a smile. “But of course. Do with the gun as you see fit. Your house, your rules.”

“Please, follow me,” Drogo said, turning on his heels and leading the way through the manse. Jon moved closer to Dany’s side as they fell in step behind him, the lone guard following after them.

“We should leave,” he told her in a low voice. “We can find another way—”

“No,” she said through her teeth, keeping her voice low, too. She didn’t want to admit how rattled she was, being back here in Drogo’s presence. “If you want to leave, then you’re welcome to go. But I’m doing this my way.”

Frustrated, Jon flexed his jaw but said no more.

Drogo led them to another large room with a long, low table positioned in the center, surrounded by cushions for sitting. He gestured for them to sit while he took his position at the head of the table. It was more difficult than Dany would have imagined, trying to squat down in a dress. Jon, who’d taken off his duster and already planted himself on his cushion, noticed her struggle and offered his hand, holding on tightly until she was situated, both of them seated to Drogo’s left.

The guard took up his post at the door, and Drogo called to him in Dothraki. The man stuck his head out and barked out a harsh command. Almost immediately, women paraded into the room, carrying numerous dishes of lavish foods. Keeping their heads down, they set the platters on the table before them then moved to the perimeter of the room to wait. The gold collars around their necks glinted in the light of the lanterns. Dany was glad she was already seated so her legs couldn’t give out on her. Self-consciously, she touched her throat, as if she could still feel the weight of the collar around her own neck.

Jon caught the telling movement and directed a scowl at his empty plate. Mistaking his expression, Drogo snapped his fingers at the slaves. “ _Rhellaya eyak_ ,” he ordered, and they quickly came forward to fill their plates with food and pour wine into their glasses. Dany wanted to stop them, to insist she could do it herself, but she bit her tongue, hard, almost tasting blood. It wouldn’t do good to insult Drogo now, before she’d even had a chance to ask him what she came to ask him.

“Thank you,” she murmured sincerely, trying to catch the eye of the woman who served her. The woman glanced at her, almost startled, but only bowed her head, skittish and frightened, fading away again. Mentally, Dany took stock of her; the woman was blonde-haired and brown-eyed. Tysha, from what Tyrion had told her, was slender and petite, with brown hair and blue eyes. Looking at the other women around the room, Dany didn’t immediately see anyone who fit that description.

She had a sinking thought: What if Tysha wasn’t here? What if Drogo had sold her off, as he’d sold Dany off? What if she was dead?

“What do you think?” Drogo asked, and she looked at him, realizing he was asking her about the food. He smiled darkly. “You must not be used to being on this end of things.”

Before her temper could spark, she took a steadying breath. “I find I’m still as capable of serving myself as anyone else.”

“But where is the fun in that?” he asked, lifting his glass in a toast. “Eat up. I insist.”

As he sipped his wine, he watched them. Quickly sharing a look with Jon, she picked up her fork, and he did the same. They began to eat, and at Drogo’s questioning look, Dany nodded her approval. Pleased, he began to eat as well.

After a few bites, she attempted to steer the conversation toward Tysha. “Drogo—”

He made a disapproving sound. “What is this ‘Drogo’ nonsense? You used to call me, _Shekh Ma Shieraki Anni_.” He smiled and translated for Jon’s benefit. “ _My sun and stars._ Remember?”

Her face filled with heat. “Because you asked me to,” she said stiffly, too embarrassed to look at Jon.

He ignored her, continuing, “And I called you, _Yer Jalan Atthirari Anni_. Moon of my life. Because of your hair.” He smirked at her. “You liked that very much.”

Her hand tightened around her fork. “And then you sold me to Kraznys mo Nakloz,” she bit out, no longer able to hold her tongue.

Drogo only scoffed. “Are you still upset about that? It was simple business, nothing personal. Besides, if anyone should be angry, it should be me. After what you did, men refused to do business with me for years. They accused me of purposely selling him a bad investment.”

“Then clearly she did something right.” Jon lifted his glass in salute and swigged it even when Drogo refused to return the gesture.

Drogo was still watching her keenly. “I heard the stories, though I never saw it for myself. People say you burned down his pyramid. Others say you burned the whole city. They say you must have summoned a dragon or three. Some swear they saw you turn into a dragon yourself. No one but the slaves survived. How did you do it?” he needled.

“ _Lā zaldrīzes iksis daor buzdari_ ,” she hissed, and his lips thinned. He hated when she spoke Valyrian because he couldn’t understand it. Realizing the situation was quickly going south, she tried to mollify him with a small smile. “His pyramid had too many trees growing in it,” she said blithely then shrugged. “It was a tinderbox ready to explode.”

He stared at her, the tense moment stretching. Then, finally, he smirked, relaxing. “This. This is why I liked you.” He sipped his wine then set his cup down, and she did the same, eagerly wetting her parched throat. “So. What have you traveled all this way to discuss with me?”

She cleared her throat. “I have a client who is interested in one of your slaves.” The word tasted foul in her mouth.

This surprised him. “Interested, how?”

“He wishes to relieve you of her service.”

His black eyebrow arched. “Oh? And what would I get in return?”

“What would you want in return?”

Drogo blinked slowly at her, then laughed, startling her. He had so rarely laughed in the time she’d been captive in his manse. “Incredible,” he mused. “It seems I have taught you well, _khaleesi_.” His praise shamed her, but she refused to show it. At her side, she could feel the disgust radiating off Jon. She said nothing, unflinching as Drogo held her gaze. “And who is this woman your client is so interested in?”

“Tysha,” she answered. His brow furrowed slightly, and she elaborated, “Slender, brown hair, blue eyes. Probably in her thirties.”

He finally nodded. “Ah, yes. Tysha. And why is your client so interested in her?”

She shrugged. “She means a great deal to him.”

“Who is this client?”

“He prefers to remain anonymous, which is why I have come on his behalf.”

Drogo stared at her, considering. “How much would you give me for her?”

The food she’d just eaten sat heavy in her stomach. It sickened her, bartering for another human being like this. “My client is prepared to offer you two hundred gold dragons.”

His dark eyes flashed. “That is quite a lot.”

“As I said. She means a great deal to him.”

Drogo’s face was unsmiling now. “Not even _you_ netted me that much in gold.”

Her stomach twisted with more shame, but she was surprised when Jon spoke. “You settled for far too little.”

She glanced at him, but he was glowering at Drogo, who narrowed his eyes in turn. Licking her lips, Dany fixed her attention on the khal again. “It should be an easy decision, then,” she said evenly.

Drogo grunted, weighing his choices. After a moment, he smiled, though there was nothing pleasant in it. “I am not sure two hundred gold dragons is enough.”

Dany blinked, her mouth parting slightly before she quickly schooled her expression. “You just said it was a lot, more than you’ve ever received for a slave before.”

“Tysha means a great deal to me,” he replied dismissively.

Her patience was thinning. “I had to remind you who she even was.”

He sneered slightly. “Yes, and now that I remember, I remember she is very precious to me. I am not sure I am willing to let her go. Not for gold alone.”

“What would you accept?” she asked calmly even as her heart began to race.

His eyes held hers. “I am sure you could think of something,” he said with careful indifference.

She felt momentarily light-headed. “Me, you mean.”

Drogo smiled, and Jon inhaled sharply beside her. “Dany—”

She quickly talked over his objection, before he could ruin their negotiations. “You want me in exchange for Tysha, but unfortunately I’ve become far too accustomed to my freedom. I don’t believe I could part with it so easily.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “It does not have to be as permanent as all that,” he conceded.

“One night,” she posited.

Drogo thought it over. When he smiled, there was a hunger in his eyes that chilled her. “One night, for old time’s sake.” He reconsidered. “And the two hundred gold dragons, of course.”

Inhaling deeply, Dany nodded. “One night with me, and two hundred gold dragons.” They shook hands to seal the deal, a gesture she witnessed him make with dozens of other men to finalize a business arrangement. His rough, callused skin on hers made her shiver, and she quickly released his hand. Drogo noticed, his smirk widening, and she cursed her weakness.

Jon growled from beside her. “You can’t actually mean to—”

She shot him a silencing look. “This doesn’t concern you.” For a moment, she was peering into the eyes of the White Wolf, and she was sure he would leap across the table just to rip Drogo’s throat out. Desperate, she held his gaze, pleading. _Don’t ruin this._

He glared at her wordlessly, then finally looked away with a snarl, shaking his head to himself, and she let out a small breath of relief.

“Do not worry,” Drogo spoke to Jon, his tone light and triumphant. “I shall return her to you on the morrow, though I cannot promise that she will be as she was.” With a smirk at her, he snapped his fingers to the guards, the second one having returned at some point while they ate. A moment later, another line of women were paraded into the room, standing across from them. Unlike the others, these women’s dresses were filmy and sheer, more than hinting at the fact that they wore nothing underneath. Understanding the khal’s intentions, Dany felt a slick slide of nausea in the pit of her stomach.

Drogo looked to Jon again. “As a gesture of my hospitality, I insist you take one of my women for the night. It only seems fair, as I will be entertaining your woman tonight and will have no need of my own.” Dany tightened her fists in her lap, holding dangerously still, as Drogo called to one of the women. “Tysha, _jadat_.”

Dany glanced at the woman who stepped forward, her head bowed. Dany couldn’t see her eyes, but she had brown hair, pale skin, a small frame. Drogo switched back to the Common Tongue for Jon. “I recommend you try this one, before you give her over to your client.”

Tysha tensed at his words, indicating she understood the Common Tongue as well, but she obediently kept her head down.

Dany cut an alarmed look to Jon, who looked absolutely murderous. His eyes were hooded and flat. “No, thank you,” he said lowly, and though his words were not directed at her, she flinched anyway: “I prefer my women willing.”

Drogo shrugged. “As you wish.” After dismissing the women, he stood suddenly and held out his hand to Dany. “I think I am ready to retire. My appetite grows for something else now.” Realizing she couldn’t delay the inevitable, she reluctantly took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “Your friend may finish eating, if he would like, and then my bloodriders will escort him to his room for the night.”

As he escorted her out of the room, Dany looked at Jon one last time. His dark eyes followed her down the length of the table and out the door, until they could follow her no more, the guards closing the doors between them.

* * *

Being back in Drogo’s personal chambers was like walking into a dream. Everything was almost as she remembered it. How had so little changed in the six years she’d been gone? But of course, Khal Drogo was not a man given to change. He was utterly predictable in that way, as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. She’d remembered that about him; she’d been right to count on it.

She just hadn’t counted on how she would feel being back in this place, in this room. She didn’t feel like the free woman she’d worked hard to become. Dany Stormborm was gone, and in her shoes stood Daenerys Targaryen, bed slave to Khal Drogo. A disposable little bauble to be placed back on the shelf when he was done with her only to be taken down when he had use for her again.

She touched the dragon pin at her breast, jumping when Drogo shut the door and came up behind her. His fingers skimmed up her bare arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told her, his breath hot at her ear. Her breathing shallowed, but he moved away from her. “Wine?” he asked.

When she faced him, she saw he stood beside a table, pouring red wine from a decanter into a goblet. She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs of a life long past. “No. I prefer to keep a clear head when conducting business.”

He scoffed. “ _Business_. Your friend is no longer here. You do not have to play coy with me.” Smugly, he looked at her and sipped his wine. “I think the dark hair has grown on me. It is almost like you are a different person, yet not. It is rather exciting.”

Licking her dry lips, she folded her arms at her waist. “I find it hard to believe you could be bored, seeing as you keep such a varied selection for yourself.”

He smiled. “Sometimes I think I made a mistake giving you to Kraznys,” he mused.

“I am sure he would think so, too,” she retorted. “If he were alive.”

Drogo crossed to her again. “He was not the right man to handle you. I see that now.”

He was so close, she had to tip her head back to look up at him. He was so much taller than her. Bigger. He had always used it to his advantage. “You might have come to regret keeping me as well,” she told him.

He was unconcerned. “No.” He touched her face, and she managed not to recoil. “You would not do to me what you did to him.”

“You’re so sure of yourself,” she said flatly.

“You were happy here. I know.” He said it with such conviction, it nearly took her breath away. “As I said. You need a man with a strong hand to rein you in. A woman is not much different from a horse in that way. If you give it too much slack, it will fight you. You must be firm with it. Let it know who is in control.”

She did not shrink from his gaze. “And yet, you were always more gentle with your horses than you ever were with your women.”

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, pressing on her collar bone. His smirk returned. “The difference is the women enjoy the roughness while the horses do not.”

Looking at him, she once again felt the ghost of his hands on her, around her throat, in her hair, grabbing her arms, her legs; the bruises that lingered for days, sometimes weeks; the tearing, the blood; the way it sometimes hurt to walk, even to sit. She remembered it all—and the only way to protect herself had been to give in, to shutter her mind as she allowed her body to do whatever was demanded of it, whatever it needed to do.

“Did you ever ask them that?” she challenged, her heart thrumming in her throat. He frowned. “Did you ever ask them what they liked? What they wanted?”

A sudden fury ignited in his eyes, and he sneered at her. “I do not care what they want. They live to serve me. To please _me_. And in return, they are taken care of. They are fed and cleaned. They get to live here, in this beautiful house, instead of on the streets or in those filthy brothels. It is an honor what they do for the khal.” He swigged his wine then set it aside. His expression was hard now. Cold. “I grow weary of you talking. Take off your clothes.”

“Please,” she said quietly.

Drogo furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Take off your clothes, _please_.”

His lip curled, baring his teeth. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the neck, and her hands latched onto his wrist when he began to squeeze in warning. “Take off your clothes, _you fucking whore_.”

His thumb dug into her windpipe, strangling her breath and her voice in her throat. Still, she did not plead or relent. “I am not your whore,” she croaked out, even when he squeezed harder. “And I will never do your bidding, ever again.”

“We have a deal,” he threatened menacingly, leaning his face close to hers. “You will do what I say, even if I have to tie you to that bed and make you.”

Her eyes watered. She couldn’t breathe now, chest growing tight. Out of reflex, she clawed at his hand, struggling to pull it away, to ease the pressure around her neck, but he was too strong, too powerful. Faintly, she remembered and groped for the pin on her breast, but he released her neck just then, grabbing both of her hands to restrain them behind her back. When he pulled her against his body, she could feel his erection on her belly. Fear reared up inside her, an ugly, inevitable thing, and she fought him. Latching onto his neck with her mouth, she dug her teeth into his flesh and bit down hard.

He roared in pain and yanked her away, spinning around to throw her down on his bed. She tripped and fell into a heap on the pallet, piled high with pillows. Scrambling onto her hands and knees, she backed away as he advanced on her. Her trembling hand fumbled to free the pin from her dress, and the oil lamps around her flared brighter, dancing, taunting. Something inside her awakened. _Do it!_ it howled.

Suddenly, the doors slammed open, and a dark figure darted into the room. At the glimpse of raven curls, Dany’s heart gave a dangerous lurch.

Startled, Drogo whipped around. “ _Ki fin yeni!_ ” He was too slow, however. Jon had dropped to the floor, skidding between the khal’s legs. Then he twisted mid-slide, getting his feet under him, and lunged into the air, landing on Drogo’s back. _The White Wolf,_ Dany thought wildly. In the blink of an eye, one gloved hand grabbed the khal’s hair to jerk his head back, and the other sliced a knife across his neck in one quick slash.

Blood sprayed in an arc through the air. Jon released him, dropping into a crouch on the floor. Drogo grappled uselessly at his neck, futilely trying to staunch the spurts of blood. He took two steps for the door before he pitched forward, crashing to the ground.

Wide-eyed, Dany watched in horror as he tried to crawl then drag himself forward, slipping in his own blood as it pooled on the marble floor. Then, as quickly as that, he slumped to the ground, face down. Red bloomed around his immobile body, spreading out like the petals on a flower.

Unfolding his limbs, Jon stood from his crouched position and turned to her. His black gloves were slick with blood, splatters of it covering his white shirt and his pale face. When he fixed his black gaze on her, he looked positively feral.

“Are you alright?” he demanded, his breathing labored. His question jarred her out of her stupor.

Furious, she shot to her feet. “What the hell is wrong with you!” she yelled at him.

At her outburst, he reared back, his expression morphing into one of disbelief. “What do you mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I just saved your life!” he snarled.

“Yes, and you probably just alerted his whole damn _khalasar_!”

He sneered, slashing his arm through the air. “I don’t give a damn! I’m your bloody second, Dany. I wasn’t going to just let him rape you!”

Angrily, she waved her pin at him. “And neither was I, you idiot! I was going to kill him myself! That was the plan!”

At the revelation, Jon blinked. “Oh.” Stubbornly, he jerked a hand through his hair, streaking his wild curls with Drogo’s blood. “Well, bloody tell me your fucking plan next time! Seven hells, Dany, you can’t leave me in the dark like that! You’re not alone anymore, you know! You don’t have to do this shit on your own.” An uneven breath sawed through his teeth as his anger seemed to leave him. “Gods, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing—just thinking about him touching you—”

Her hands shook as she fixed the dragon pin back to her dress. “We don’t have time for this,” she said, unable to meet his gaze. She couldn’t look at Drogo’s lifeless body either. The flames in the oil lanterns jumped and flickered, mirroring her erratic emotions. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths; she needed to calm down, or she would quickly lose control of this whole thing. “We have to get Tysha and get out of here before his bloodriders come. It’s only a matter of time.”

Jon winced, then bent down to shove his knife into his boot. Unfortunate for Drogo, his guards had stopped at the gun. “Less than that now, I’m sure. I already killed the two guards watching me.” When he stood, he looked solemn. “We should just go. Cut our losses, leave Tysha—”

“No,” she barked at him, spinning away and stalking across the room. “We didn’t kill Drogo just to leave without her now.”

“Where are you going?” he demanded, following her to a closed door.

“There’s a servant’s tunnel from his room to the slaves’ quarters,” she explained. “So we— _they_ can come to him directly in the middle of the night whenever he summons them.”

Jon growled in disgust. “Of fucking course there is.”

Shouldering the door open, they slipped into the tunnel and secured the door behind them. The passageway was lit with oil lanterns that burned low, and Dany moved swiftly, hating that her body still recalled every inch of this house. At the end of the passage was another door, unlocked. As soon as she stepped through, the women sat up in their beds, instantly alert. As they’d been trained to do.

But when they saw her, confusion clouded their faces, giving way to horror as Jon emerged behind her. They clutched at their sheets defensively, and Dany held up her hands to reassure them.

“We won’t hurt you,” she said in Dothraki then in the Common Tongue for good measure. “We are looking for Tysha.” All heads turned to the woman in question, giving away her location. Tysha cowered as Dany and Jon crossed to her bed. Sensing her fear, he hung back to give Dany a chance to talk to her. “I’m here to release you,” she said, crouched down so she was eye level with her.

Tysha stared at her, bewildered. “Release me?”

Dany nodded. “Tyrion Lannister sent me.” Her eyes widened in recognition, disbelief flashing in their blue depths. Dany hurried to continue, “A ship awaits us, to take you to him. We have to go now, while there’s time.”

Tysha was hesitant, scared. “But—the khal—he will hurt me—”

Dany shook her head. “He won’t. He can’t hurt you anymore. The khal is dead.” Tysha gasped, and Dany stood, turning to face the other women. The words rang out in Dothraki, loud and clear. “The khal is dead.” More surprised exclamations echoed her declaration. “You are free. You can leave this place.” The women shared wild looks, frozen in their beds, and Dany repeated herself, louder. “You are free! Slaves no longer. Cast off your collars and your chains.”

Jon inched closer to her. “Dany,” he said urgently. “We really have to go. _Now_.”

Dany held out her hand for Tysha. Slowly, uncertainly, she took it, and Dany pulled her out of her bed. She held onto her hand, but Tysha’s steps were too careful, too scared, hindered by her fear of Drogo. “We have to hurry,” she urged, but Tysha’s face was pale, apprehensive.

Impatient, Jon swept Dany aside and scooped Tysha up into his arms. Tysha cried out in alarm, but Jon ignored her, looking to Dany. “Get us the bloody hell out of here. Now,” he barked. She would have objected to his methods, if she didn’t feel his urgency as well.

Directing him to the main door, she opened it, and he ducked through it, with Tysha clinging to his neck. Then she turned back to the others with one last plea. “Run. Now, while you still can. Before the _khalasar_ realizes the khal is dead. This might be your only chance.”

She wanted to stay and make sure they got away, herd them to safety, as she’d done once before. But Jon was right. She could only lead these women so far. They had to be willing to take the next step. With one last lingering look, she flew through the door and after Jon, her sandaled feet slapping against the marble as she quickly took the lead. She guided him through the manse, down the familiar, less used corridors, to the back exits.

To her despair, there were guards stationed there. Jon was about to put Tysha down to handle them, but Dany moved faster, sneaking up behind one and slicing his throat open from ear to ear with her dragon pin. Before he could even hit the ground, she did the same to the other guard.

Then they were running through the courtyard, under the guise of night. Thankfully, Tysha was too paralyzed with fear to make any noise. Behind them, they heard the alarm of the _khalasar_ go up as they finally realized their khal was dead. Gods, she hoped the women were already on the move.

Jon and Dany didn’t stop running, sticking to the alleys and side streets of Pentos to avoid detection. They carried on past the inn they’d been staying at and headed straight for the harbor. In the distance, she could see _Black Betha_ in the slip where they’d left it. Once they were on the dock, feet pounding on the creaking wood, she shouted out to the crew.

Spotting them, someone called to the others, and immediately they got to work, hoisting the mainsail. Reaching the ship, Jon handed Tysha to a crewmember who leaned down to help and lifted her on board. Jon turned to Dany and gave her a boost onto the deck. Nearly tripping in her skirts, she spun around to grab his hand and help him up after her.

Davos was there to greet them. “This the girl?” he asked, covering the frightened woman in a blanket.

“Yes,” Dany gasped, catching her breath. “We have to go, now. The khal’s men will go to the inn first to look for us, but they’ll be sure to come to the docks next.”

Davos nodded gravely. “Don’t worry, Mhysa. We’ll be gone before they get here.”

Crewmembers yelled as they pulled up the anchor and cast off the lines, and others shoved away from the dock with long push poles. Captain Davos left them to shout orders at his men, as the wind quickly began to lift the sails. Dany watched the dock, expecting to see Drogo’s bloodriders any moment now, but soon _Black Betha_ was out in the harbor, the dock out of reach, and still there were no bloodriders to be seen. Finally, she could release the breath she’d been holding.

Jon stood at the gunwale next to her, his eyes fixed in the same direction as hers. “Damn,” he muttered, and she glanced at him in alarm, his face a shifting shadow in the moonlight overhead. At her questioning look, he sighed. “Forgot my coat in the khal’s manse,” he lamented. “It was my favorite, too.”

Shaking her head, she turned and saw that Tysha was watching her. She looked lost as she clutched at the blanket around her shoulders. Dany had seen the same look in her own reflection for weeks after her own escape. “Where are we going?” Tysha asked, as if she was half-convinced she was dreaming.

Dany glanced to the open sea that stretched out before them. “Home. You’re going home.”

* * *

Before leaving for Drogo’s manse, Dany had paid the innkeep to have their trunks taken to the docks and loaded on _Black Betha_ , in the event of a quick getaway. It had turned out to be a fortuitous strategy on her part.

After changing out of his clothes and rinsing the blood from his face and hair, Jon had left Dany alone in their cabin so she could change as well, though not before he’d brought her a fresh bucket of water. Unlike him, she had nothing to clean off; still, she couldn’t help but run the damp cloth over every inch of her body, as if she could cleanse herself of the memory of Drogo’s hands on her. She hadn’t quite been able to do so before now, but maybe this time, with his death, things would be different. _She_ could be different.

Naked and damp, Dany dug through her trunk to pull out a simple white tunic to slip into. Then she picked up her dress from the floor and removed her pin from it, dipping it in the water to clean it of the dried blood. Studying the fine, silky material in her hand, a slow-rolling anger washed over her suddenly. With an aborted shriek, she stabbed the pin into the material and yanked it downward, tearing a gash in the front. She did it again, and again, unaware of the primal shrieks of pain and rage she let out, until the dress was nothing but shreds at her feet.

The cabin door swung open, and Jon was there, eyes wild with alarm. When he saw her, and the mess she’d made of the gown, he understood. Quietly, he shut the door, but when he made a move for her, she held the shiv out in a defensive gesture. “Don’t,” she warned.

He stopped and held up his hands, eyes locked with hers. “I won’t. Not until you want me to.”

She closed her eyes, breathing erratically. Something inside her still felt trapped, frightened, like a cornered prey. She thought about Drogo, his lifeless body on the floor. But then she thought about his blood on Jon’s hands, and she thought about how Jon had come for her, refusing to leave her to deal with Drogo on her own, even though she’d given him ample reason to.

Letting out a juddering sigh, she lowered the pin and finally blinked her eyes open. Only then did he approach her, gently prying the shiv from her stiff hand and setting it in her open trunk. He took her shoulders in hand and forced her to look at him. Rubbing his thumbs under her eyes, he wiped away the kohl she’d only managed to smear while scrubbing frantically at her face. His gloves were gone, nothing separating his skin from hers. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her.

The embrace was a shock to her system, like ice water on the fiery rage simmering inside her. She’d not let another man touch her in years, let alone hold her. She hadn’t thought she could stand it, not after everything.

But this...There was no fear or disgust that usually followed a man putting his hands on her. She didn’t flinch away or lash out.

In his arms, she felt safe, protected. Cherished, even—by hands that had killed, yes, but hands that had killed for her.

Unexpected tears pricked her eyes, and she buried her face against his shoulder to hide them. “I was supposed to be the one to do it,” she told him, meaning Drogo. “You stole that from me.”

Jon sighed wearily and rested his chin on her head. “I know. You can hit me later if you want. But right now I’m holding you. Because I think you need it. And, frankly, I bloody need it, too. You scared the shit out of me, Dany.”

_Why?_ she wanted to ask him, but she already knew why. It was why she always looked to him first when making any deal, why she couldn’t rest easy until he returned from an assignment. Why she didn’t want anyone else on this mission with her but him.

She fisted his shirt in her hands, drawing his scent into her lungs. He smelled of sweat and salt and gunpowder, like the struck head of a match. She held that breath for as long as she could before she exhaled, and with it went her anger and bitterness, leaving her feeling strangely empty. “I’m so tired,” she admitted softly, surprising herself.

“Sleep, then.” She was bereft when he pulled away, guiding her to the bunks. “Take the bottom this time,” he told her, and she plopped down on the berth unceremoniously.

When he went to move away, she clung to his shirt. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Stay.” After a tense beat, he nodded, stooping to take off his boots. As he climbed in with her, she lay down on her side, facing away from him. The space was narrow and cramped, and he could only fit curled around her.

It should have been too much, too soon. Too suffocating. But with the steady rocking of the ship on the waves and the comforting rise and fall of his chest at her back, she easily fell asleep.

* * *

Tysha spent most of her time on deck, which surprised Dany. She expected her to hide away in her cabin until they reached King’s Landing, but the other woman seemed to enjoy the fresh air, the salty sea breeze on her forlorn face. She often sat astern, her eyes closed as the ship bobbed on the waves. She turned skittish if any of the crew ventured too close to her, but Davos had already threatened his men with a night in the brig if they so much as looked at her funny.

It was Dany who found herself hulling up in her cabin. Jon mostly left her alone, sensing that she needed time to set herself to rights. It was a mourning, of sorts; not for Drogo, but for the girl she had been. She had to forgive herself, she realized; for too long, she’d blamed herself for not being able to protect that girl the way she wished she could have, the way she would now. It wasn’t her fault. She’d only been a child then. She shouldn’t have had to protect herself from monsters like him.

At night, Jon still came to her. He would join her in the bottom berth without her having to ask, somehow knowing she didn’t want to be alone. She slept easier with him there, better than she had in years.

On their third night at sea, emboldened by the dark, Dany finally unburdened herself to him.

“In Astapor, I killed a man,” she said without preamble. She couldn’t see his face even though she had turned toward him, but she knew he was awake, knew he was listening by the rhythm of his breaths, the rigidity of his limbs around her. He knew this story from Missandei and Grey, but he needed to hear it from her. She wanted him to hear it.

“His name was Kraznys mo Nakloz. Drogo had sold me to him when I was 17. I suppose he was bored of me. Or maybe it was like he said, I had become too much trouble. I’d gotten too comfortable, expected too much as his _khaleesi_. If he hadn’t sold me, I would probably still be wearing that gold collar, convinced things weren’t so bad,” she said, ashamed of herself. Jon stroked a hand up her arm to comfort her. It took her a moment to find the courage to continue.

“Whatever his reasoning, he realized he could get a substantial amount of money for selling a bed slave like me, so he did. And as bad as Drogo was...Kraznys was worse. He had hundreds of slaves, men and women. He beat them, tortured them, mutilated them. And, when they displeased them, he killed them.”

Jon’s breathing quickened as she talked. “In a twisted way, I’d become accustomed to my life with Drogo. It’s sad, isn’t it? How quickly one grows to love their chains. Being sold to Kraznys—it felt like a slap to the face. I was angry in a way I hadn’t been before. I was older, too. Hardened, I guess. Not so easily cowed into submission as I’d been when I was 13. I had so much anger in me. It had been building for years, and by the time I’d been taken to Astapor, I didn’t know where to put it.

“One day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know what was different about that day; I just remember thinking, _I’d rather die than let this go on_. So when Kraznys tried to rape me, I fought him. I kicked, I slapped. I bit his ear so hard, my mouth flooded with blood. He hit me so hard my head was ringing. I almost threw up. I was sure he would kill me then, and I was almost glad for it. Instead, as retribution, he said he would rape Missandei and make me watch. He knew we were friends, and he knew it would hurt me, more than anything he could do to me physically. She was only 14. Too small and too young to protect herself. His men restrained me. I couldn’t do anything. When she started to scream—I lost it.”

His hand curled into a tight fist, and the words began to pour out of her. “There were lanterns all around the room. I could feel the fire moving through me, like it was looking for a way out. I don’t know how I did it. I just know I wanted him to burn, and then, suddenly, he was. The lanterns exploded, sending fire and oil around the room. Some of it caught on Kraznys’ robes. He started screaming, and his men let me go to help him, but they couldn’t put the fire out. I grabbed Missandei, and we ran. The fire quickly grew out of control—I don’t know if I was still controlling it or not, but soon everyone was fleeing the pyramid. Missandei and I freed who we could and got them to safety.”

She could still see it, the way the fire danced and raged. Even when she closed her eyes, the flames seemed to be licking at her eyelids. She swallowed and opened her eyes. “Sometimes it still hits me, the smell of Kraznys’ charred flesh as he burned. The sound of his screams.”

“You saved them,” Jon said gruffly, his voice a rasping whisper in the dark. “Missandei, Grey, the others. You did an amazing thing, Dany.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I did. Whatever it is—it’s not normal. The freedmen and women—they looked at me like their savior, but to everyone else, I was something else. Something to fear. A monster.”

“Dany. You’re not a monster.”

She made a derisive sound. “No, I’m just an abomination.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she was almost afraid he agreed with her. She started to move away, but he grabbed her waist, gently, to hold her still. “You think you’re a monster?” he said softly. “I know monsters, Dany. My father—he was a monster. Cruel and abusive. A drunk and a bully. He was like that with my mother, too. After she died, I became a burden to him, a motherless child who didn’t even know how to defend myself. Eventually, my father tired of me, so he cast me out. Said if he ever saw me again, he’d kill me himself. I was eight years old. I was terrified. I cried. I begged. I asked him what I was supposed to do. He didn’t care. Do you know what he did?” Eyes peeled wide, Dany shook her head. “He gave me a match. One, solitary match. And he told me, ‘The nights get cold, boy. Don’t use it too soon or you’ll freeze to death.’ Then he laughed and slammed the door in my face. And that was the last I ever saw him.

“I started walking. I didn’t know where I was going. South, I’d hoped, where it would at least be warmer. He was right. The nights got very cold, and I would curl up in a hole I’d dug in the ground to try to sleep and shake until dawn. But I was too afraid to use the match. Every night I would tell myself, _tomorrow; tomorrow will be colder. Save it for then_. I never did use that match. I was filthy and starving, feasting on roots and plants, whatever I could find in the woods, and everyone I asked for help turned me away. People don’t much care for grubby little vagrants who come to them with their hands out.

“Eventually, I made it to King’s Landing, and there were so many kids like me, nobody looked at me any differently. I started stealing food. Got my arse kicked a lot, sometimes by shopkeeps, but mostly by other, bigger kids. I was scrawny, but I could throw a punch. Luckily, I’d learned how to fight from my old man. That’s how I ended up in those fight clubs, earning what little money I could.

“That’s where you found me, Dany. But you weren’t the first to approach me. Not the first to try to recruit me for whatever purpose. I turned them all down but you. Do you know why?”

Again, she shook her head, and he cupped her cheek. “Because that fire you felt moving through you—I felt it in you, too. I’d been cold for so long, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, standing before you, I felt _warm,_ all the way down to my bones. And I knew then I’d do whatever I could to stay by your side, just to bask in your fire.”

At his words, she couldn’t seem to take a deep enough breath. His breath was hot on her face, and she knew if she turned her face up, their mouths would touch. “Jon,” she said tremulously, her voice thready with disbelief and something else she couldn’t identify. No—it wasn’t that she couldn’t; she’d just been too afraid to name it before now.

She was so bloody tired of being afraid.

Dany lifted her mouth, her lips ghosting across his parted ones. They held still, just like that, scarcely daring to breathe—until his tongue grazed her bottom lip, igniting a firestorm of lust and desire she’d tried so hard to contain. With a gasping breath, she kissed him, pressing her lips hard against his. Jon groaned and opened her mouth with his own, brushing his tongue over hers. His hand cupped her face, thumb nudging her chin down so he could plunder her mouth. She splayed her hands on his bare chest, the muscle there hard and unyielding, the raised ridges of his old scars pressing into her flesh like an inscription; she felt a new appreciation for them, for the things he’d had to do to get them, for the ways he’d survived them.

Buoyed by her touch, he made to move on top of her, and she shifted onto her back to aid him, their mouths still fused in a hungry kiss. She opened her legs for him to wedge his knees between, her tunic slipping up to her hips. Jon touched her thigh and slid his palm upward. When he reached her hip and discovered it bare, he went still, mouth slack on hers. She opened her eyes. The moonlight filtering through the porthole was the only light in their cabin, but the realization on his face was plain as day: She was completely naked underneath.

“Dany,” he murmured, his eyes fat, black pools of want in the dark. He kissed her again, this time with an edge to his bite. His hand pushed up to her belly, taking her tunic with it. Abruptly, he stopped, lifting his head. “You’re gonna have to say it, Dany. I won’t go any further until you do.”

Sliding her hands up to his neck, she dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, desperate for him to continue. _Love me_ , she wanted to say, to plead. Instead, she whispered, “Fuck me.”

The ship bobbed on a gentle swell, the moon flashing through the porthole, illuminating his eyes, and in them she saw not the man but the wolf inside. She trembled, not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

Her demand unleashed the beast inside him. Hungrily, Jon devoured her mouth, biting at her lips, sucking on her tongue. He hunched over her, his weight on his haunches, and pulled her tunic up, over her breasts. She lifted her arms so he could remove it entirely, her dark hair slipping through the neckhole as he tugged it over her head and tossed it aside. He smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her again, his tongue hot in her mouth. Too soon, it was gone, his lips on her chin, her jaw. She fumbled with the placket of his pants as he trailed his wet mouth down her throat, teeth grazing over her collar bone. When he reached her breasts, she stopped in the middle of her task, her chest heaving with a sharp breath. He circled his tongue around her nipple, and she arched into his mouth with a gasp. Sucking the rigid tip between his lips, he cupped her breast and kneaded it as he teased her with his tongue and teeth.

“Jon,” she moaned, her body already shaking uncontrollably. Her cunt was slick, pulsing, but he only turned his attentions to her other breast, thumbing that nipple until it was stiff and aching. Then, taking it into his mouth, he sucked on it, making her cry out. She wanted to slip her hand between her legs and relieve the building pressure in her cunt, but she refrained, fisting the edges of the lumpy pallet beneath her.

Finally, his hand was there, and he groaned deep in his chest as his fingers slipped through the slippery, sticky arousal that leaked from her. He spread his fingers to part her lips and stroked upward, making her body jerk when he found the swollen nub of her clitoris. As he began to rub it, Dany squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. The feeling was momentarily overwhelming, a flood of emotions washing through her, but he didn’t rush her. His fingers stroked her with light, reverent touches as he mouthed at her breasts with unhurried attentiveness, and she gave into it finally, opening her thighs wider for him, hips angling upward. At her cue, he slipped his fingers down, farther with each stroke, until he was rubbing over her slit and pushing them inside her.

She gasped, her cunt clenching around him, her belly quivering. Ever so slowly, Jon fucked her with his fingers, the sounds of her gathering wetness growing louder in the quiet of their cabin.

Before, the sound would have shamed her, but now she felt wild. Unchained.

Boldly, she hitched her knees up, trying to bring his body down on top of hers, but he evaded her, shifting as far down the bed as the cramped bunk allowed. His broad back arched over her as he bent forward and pressed his mouth between her thighs, licking her cunt in a lewd, open-mouthed kiss that had her own back bowing off the bed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she keened, tangling her fingers in his hair. He hummed and licked her again, tongue pushing inside her. She wanted to lock her thighs around his head, to hold him close, but he held her legs wide open as he feasted, tongue tracing her folds up and down in between crude thrusts into her tight channel. Her cunt pounded with her rapid heartbeat, the ache inside her painfully sharp by the time he brought his mouth to her clit, flicking his tongue over the fleshy hood. Her hips bucked against his face, undulating as she grunted, wildly seeking the friction she needed. Cum was slipping down between her cheeks even when he plugged two fingers inside her, pulsing in and out. Finally, when he sucked her clit between his lips, massaging it with his tongue, pleasure crashed down on her fast and hard, dragging her under the tide.

She cried out, her heart thrashing against her breastbone. As she quaked with the shock of her climax, Jon sat up and hastily unfastened his pants, pushing them down over his arse and taking his cock in hand. Notching the head at her cunt, he pushed inside her. The greedy contractions of her cunt all but swallowed him, pulling his thick cock deep inside her as he fucked into her slowly, finding little resistance. Still, she tensed instinctively, limbs still shivering in pleasure. “Oh—”

His mouth was at her ear then, his breaths loud, words tender. “Dany. Dany. It’s me. It’s me. I’ve got you.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, the feeling of his scars bringing her back to herself, and him, and this moment.

“Kiss me,” she demanded breathlessly, and he did. Then their bodies were moving together, their tongues tangled around each other. The musk of her cunt lingered on his mouth and his beard, and she arched into him as he rose and fell above her, his cock moving inside her wetly. His thrusts were slow and easy to start, acquainting them both, until her hands gripped at his arse, demanding more. Soon he was driving into her, her knees against his chest, cunt spread open for him.

She couldn’t take it, throwing her head back as she gasped for air. Grunting, Jon rutted into her, his cock bottoming out as his thighs hit her arse with quick, hard thrusts.

“Jon,” she moaned, and then he was there, pushing into her tight cunt with a judder of his hips. He faltered and gripped the wooden rung of the bunk by her head, burrowing his face against her neck with a groan.

“Fuck, Dany,” he gasped as he spent himself inside her, cock throbbing in the grip of her cunt. She unfolded her legs from between their sweat-slick bodies and wrapped them around his thighs to pull him tighter against her. He lay like that for a while, catching his breath, and she cradled his head in her hands, the damp curls winding through her fingers as she caressed them, marveling at the curve of his skull. She stared up at the bunk overhead, hazily remembering a past conversation between them.

“Jon.” She felt him stir, and suddenly, it was important that she say this. “Before, when I told you I never trust anyone completely.” A beat, then, “That isn’t true. I trust you.” And not just with her life. With her heart, which was the hardest of all to do.

He lifted his head, and she found herself shying away, turning toward the bulkhead. He tipped her face back, his dark gaze penetrating hers.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Dany. Not anymore,” he swore. “Never again.”

* * *

Dany checked the pocket watch around her neck before dropping it down the front of her shirt. Jon, who was leaning against a crumbling column, shot her a look. “Is he late?”

She shook her head. “No. We’re just early.”

She’d wanted time to scope out the meeting place before Tyrion arrived. The Dragonpit that sat atop the Hill of Rhaenys was a place of ruin; the walls were blackened and scorched, columns and stones strewn about the large amphitheater, the once-domed roof in rubble at their feet. The place had long been abandoned, making it a seemingly perfect spot to meet with their client in secret.

“What happened to this place, anyway?” Jon asked, kicking at a chunk of limestone. It skittered across the ground, ricocheting off other stones. He wore a new black duster, one he’d promptly acquired the moment they returned to King’s Landing a week ago.

“Wildfire,” she explained.

His brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“It’s a very flammable liquid, and once lit, it burns hotter and longer than normal fire. It’s also extremely volatile, and the slightest spark can set it off. There were caches of it stashed all around the city, including here and the Red Keep.” She made to touch her dragon pin before she remembered she hadn’t worn it today. “Many years ago, a whore was entertaining one of her clients here, and they accidentally set off a small, hidden cache of the stuff.”

Amused, he made a face. “How do you know this?” he asked, and she looked at him humorlessly.

“My father was the one who hid the wildfire throughout the city, when he was king. My brother told me the stories before he died.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would he put a highly explosive substance all over his own city?”

She shrugged. “Insurance,” she said simply.

He blinked at her, but before he could inquire further, their client appeared, emerging from a roped off corridor on the other side of the Dragonpit. At his side was a bald man, dressed in peculiar robes. Dany watched them curiously as Jon moved to stand next to her.

Tyrion and his companion stopped a few yards away from them. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Stormborn,” Tyrion greeted. “I must admit, I grew nervous in your absence. You were gone for quite a while.”

"I'm touched by your concern." Dany lifted her shoulder. “It took a bit longer than expected. You can’t rush these things, you understand.”

“Fair enough.”

“Who’s your friend?” Jon called pleasantly, but Dany answered for him.

“Varys. His Spider.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Varys only dipped his head in acknowledgement, his smile unbothered. “Ah, I see. You’ve been a busy woman,” Tyrion remarked.

“I looked into it,” Dany replied. “I don’t like my clients knowing more about me than I know about them.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Well, now that we’ve all been introduced.” His mismatched eyes turned eager. “Your letter said you’d acquired what I’d asked for?”

With a nod, she gave a sharp whistle. From behind her, Missandei and Grey stepped out around a half-toppled column, holding onto each of Tysha’s arms. Gently, they coaxed the woman forward, guiding her through the rubble. Tysha’s eyes were round with trepidation, darting every which way, but when they lighted on Tyrion, tears sprang to them. She sucked in a gasp, and Dany saw Tyrion’s jaw slacken.

“Tysha,” he said hoarsely, and with a muffled sob, Tysha broke away from Missandei and Grey, running past Dany and Jon, right into Tyrion’s arms. She dropped to her knees to hug him, and he gathered her in his arms.

“Tyrion,” she wept, and he shushed her, his own face twisted with anguish and relief.

“Tysha, oh, my Tysha.”

Discomfited at being privy to their reunion, Dany looked away, her eyes meeting Jon’s. He was watching her, his gray eyes soft, and she had to resist the impulse to reach for him, to take his hand in hers and hide her face in the crook of his neck as she’d grown accustomed to doing their last couple days at sea. As if he could read her mind, a faint smile threatened to steal across his face, and he wiped it away with his thumb. Then he folded his arms over his chest, stone-faced once more.

It was a few moments more before Tyrion returned his attention to them, finally having composed himself. He cleared his throat. “So the deal is done? This Khal Drogo accepted the money in exchange for her freedom?”

“Not quite.” She whistled again, and this time, Daario and Gendry came forward, carrying a hefty chest between them.

When they dropped it before Tyrion, he appeared bemused. “He didn’t want the money?”

“He did,” Dany replied. “But, seeing as he’s dead now, I didn’t imagine he’d have much use for it.”

That surprised him. He gave her an assessing look. “Well. That’s certainly one way to solve a problem.” He smiled drolly. “I don’t imagine he will be missed much.”

Dany nodded to Daario and Gendry, who opened the chest to reveal the gold dragons. “Inside, you will find the two hundred gold dragons, plus the hundred you paid us.” At Tyrion’s confusion, she explained, “I can’t accept money in exchange for another person’s freedom.”

“All that, and you don’t want anything in return?” he asked, taken aback.

“I just want the information you promised.”

He was quiet for a moment before he heaved a great, weary sigh. “Oh, Miss Stormborn. I really wish you weren’t quite so honorable. It makes what I’m about to do so much harder.”

He lifted his hand in a fist. At that signal, dozens of Gold Cloaks rushed forward, emerging from empty archways and corridors to surround them. Jon swore loudly, and Tysha shrieked as men ran by her and Tyrion, guns drawn. Jon, Grey, Daario and Gendry all drew their own weapons, pulling in tight around Dany and Missandei, but they were far outnumbered.

Dany stared at Tyrion, her narrowed eyes never leaving him. “Had a change of heart, I see,” she said, her voice deadly calm despite the adrenaline coursing through her.

If he was ashamed of his betrayal, he didn’t show it. “That I did,” he agreed somberly. “You see, as much as I might loathe my sister, I realize that family is still family. And I would be a fool to give our enemy the keys to destroy us.”

Tysha looked at him, aghast. “Tyrion, what are you doing? This—this isn’t right.”

He grabbed her hands. “I’m doing what I can to ensure your safety and make sure you never fall into the hands of men like the khal ever again,” he told her earnestly. “I want to protect you and give you the life we should have had all these years. After everything we’ve suffered, don’t you and I deserve to live like royalty?”

Tysha was ashen, looking to Dany. “But...she _saved_ me. She saved all those women,” she implored, and he faltered slightly. “You can’t mean to kill them after she helped me.”

“No, no, of course not. I’m not as cruel as all that,” he assured her. Gently, he handed Tysha over to Varys, who took her arm and murmured something in her ear. She blinked then nodded, casting her eyes downward.

Gun trained on Tyrion, Jon cast his eyes all around them, gauging the hopelessness of their situation. “Tell me you’ve got a way out of this, Dany.”

She took Missandei’s hand in hers, squeezing tightly. “Not this time.”

“Put down your weapons,” Tyrion advised. “There doesn’t have to be any bloodshed today. Surrender peacefully, and you won’t be hurt.”

“What do you mean to do with us?” Dany yelled to him.

“You’ll be taken to the dungeons where you will await trial by the Small Council.”

“For what crime?”

He shrugged. “Murder, theft, burglary, smuggling, racketeering, operating an illegal establishment without consent of the crown. I’m sure we can find something that sticks.”

Dany sneered. “A Lannister to the core.” Tyrion only tipped his head in acknowledgment. Jon looked to her in question, and after a beat, she gave a curt nod. With a growl, he stood down, as did the other three, holding their guns up in surrender.

“Arrest them,” Tyrion commanded, and the Gold Cloaks swarmed, divesting them of all their weapons and clapping shackles around their wrists. As he watched, a frown puckered his forehead. “Is this all of them? Are we missing someone?”

Varys spoke up from behind him. “No one, my lord.”

Once their prisoners were restrained, the Gold Cloaks marched them out of the Dragonpit, guns still trained on them to dissuade any attempts to run. Tyrion called after them, “I’ll ask the crown for leniency on your behalf. It’s the least I can do for your help in returning my wife.”

* * *

The black cells were aptly named; they were dark, no windows to the outside world, the only light being the few torches that lined the walls outside their cells.

In any case, Dany was glad for the darkness. It gave her a chance to prepare for what was to come.

The Gold Cloaks had brought them to the dungeons under the Red Keep hours ago. Or maybe it had been days since then; it was hard to keep track of time without her pocket watch. They’d taken it from her and anything else of value before shutting and locking the cell door. They’d even taken Jon’s matches.

Still, she wasn’t overly concerned, despite Jon’s pacing. He stalked the narrow length of the cell like a caged wolf. She couldn’t see or hear her friends, but she suspected Daario and Gendry were also pacing in their cell. Grey and Missandei would be more composed, sitting on the floor, legs crossed, heads resting on the damp stone wall while they waited.

Finally, Jon’s pacing came to an abrupt halt, his shackles rattling as he raised his arms overhead to stretch. “Gods, how much longer?”

“Not too long,” she guessed. _Hoped_. “The tourney should have started by now.”

He crouched down in front of her, resting his hands on her hiked up knees. She laid her hands on top of his, despite the weight of her own shackles. She was glad the Gold Cloaks had put them in the same cell. He helped quiet her mind.

Through her trousers, his thumbs rubbed back and forth over the groves of her kneecaps. “You really think this will work?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But it’s the only gambit we have.”

Outside their cell, the corridor brightened then. She and Jon looked toward the door when a figure holding a lantern stopped outside their cell, making them squint in the sudden light. The figure lowered the lantern, and Dany was finally able to see who it was. Her shoulders sagged.

Varys smiled. “Apologies for the wait,” he murmured. The tumblers in the lock clinked as he twisted a key in it, then, slowly, the door swung outward with a loud creak of the rusted hinges. Standing, Jon helped Dany to her feet, and they shuffled out of the cell as Varys unlocked Daario and Gendry’s cell next, then Grey and Missandei’s.

“You sure took your sweet time,” Daario grumbled, joining them in the corridor. “This is my second time down here in as many months, and it doesn’t get any more pleasant with time.”

“There were unexpected last-minute arrangements for the tourney,” Varys explained.

“But it’s begun? And everyone’s there now?” Dany asked.

Varys nodded. “Just outside the King’s Gate. The joust has already started.” Today was King Joffrey’s name day, and the queen regent was holding a week-long tourney in her son’s honor. It made for the perfect diversion.

Daario shouldered to the front of their small group. Varys set the lantern down and reached into his robe, pulling out a set of lock picks from his robes to hand to him. Daario ran his thumbs over them lovingly before pressing them to his lips. “Ah, I missed you girls.”

“Save it for the bedroom,” Jon grunted, earning a sneer from Daario. Selecting two of the lock picks, he got to work on his iron shackles. With a few strategic twists, the shackles on his wrists popped open, clattering to the ground. Dany held her hands out to him then, and he had her free in a matter of seconds. She rubbed the chafed skin of her wrists as he moved on to Jon next, removing his shackles, then Grey’s, Missandei’s and finally Gendry’s. Underneath his robes, Varys unholstered a gun for each of them.

As he took his revolver from him, Gendry eyed Varys skeptically. “How long do you plan to stay like this?”

Varys blinked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “What, you don’t like my new look?”

He grunted in distaste. With a simper, Varys reached for his neck, gripping the flabby flesh of his jowls. Then he slowly began to peel the skin back. Instantly, the magic that created the illusion vanished, revealing Arya’s face beneath.

Dany had anticipated Tyrion’s double-cross. Before she and Jon had set sail for Pentos, she’d sent Arya on a different mission: suss out just who Tyrion’s Spider was. By the time they’d returned from Pentos, Arya had done just that. Varys was a mysterious man, not an easy one to pin down; he’d been King Robert’s Master of Whispers before, but after his death, Varys did most of his spying and intelligence gathering for Tyrion.

Once she had that information, she began to concoct a plan. Knowing the king’s name day was soon, she waited until closer to the tourney to send word to Tyrion of their return from Pentos, hiding Tysha in a room above the House of the Undying. After a date was set and a meeting place agreed upon, Arya waited till the night before to track down Varys once again, dispose of him, and take his place, with Tyrion none the wiser that one of her own associates stood at his side in the Dragonpit.

Dany might never get the proof of Cersei’s treason, but she could rest a little easier knowing there was one less person who knew her true identity.

Arya shook out her shaggy brown hair. “Better?” she asked Gendry.

“Much,” he muttered.

“Arguable,” Jon replied with a smirk, tucking his gun into his waistband at his back. Arya responded with a rude gesture, then remembered something, opening her robe. Unfastening something from inside, she handed it to Dany.

Her beloved dragon pin. She understood Daario’s reaction to his lock pics, though she refrained from kissing it, at least.

“So now what?” Missandei asked.

Affixing her pin over her left breast, Dany began to give orders. “We’ll follow Arya out of the dungeons through the secret tunnels. Once we’re in the Red Keep, you will find everyone you can, serving boys, girls, cooks, anyone not at the tourney. Get them out of the castle, as quickly as you can. Threaten them if you have to, whatever it takes. Get them as far beyond the walls of the keep as you can. Once that’s done, head to the Dragonpit.”

“And what of the people who won’t leave?” Grey asked.

Dany shook her head. “It’s you or them. You won’t have much time to convince them. Most of the City Watch will be busy elsewhere, patrolling the tourney, but I’m sure it won’t be long before they realize some prisoners have escaped. Help who you can, but don’t get caught.” Her face was grave. “You won’t want to be anywhere near the Red Keep once I’m done with it.”

Missandei and Grey nodded in understanding, though Daario and Gendry were more leery. “What are you planning to do, exactly?” Daario asked.

“First, I’m going to get that damn crown,” she said matter-of-factly. Taking a deep breath, she locked eyes with Jon. “And then I’m going to raze this whole damn place to the ground.”

* * *

Arya, disguised once again as Varys, led their group from the black cells into the Red Keep by way of the Tower of the Hand. With everyone being at the tourney, the tower’s solar and Small Hall were thankfully empty.

From there, they split up. Dany and Arya headed for Maegor’s Holdfast, while the rest went in the direction of the Grand Hall and the kitchens, where they were certain most of the castle staff would be, preparing food for the feast that would come later. Before they separated, Jon shared a lingering look with her. She wanted to reach out to him, touch his face, his mouth—in case it was the last. In the gray depths of his eyes, she saw the same longing reflected back at her. But with a nod, he was gone, running after the others.

Dany still had her shackles on her, loosely looped around her wrists, just in case. As they crossed the drawbridge to the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast, they spotted a guard posted outside the doors. Keeping her head down as she shuffled along behind Arya, she took the pin from her shirt and gripped it in such a way that her shackles obscured it.

As they neared, the guard frowned, though he seemed to recognize Varys. “What’s this about?” he demanded, his hand coming to rest on the butt of his gun at his waist in idle warning.

Arya, as Varys, shrugged. “The queen wanted this one waiting for her son in his chambers for after the tourney.”

Confused, the guard eyed Dany, taking in her dirty clothes. “Really? What’s so special about her?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Arya answered, stepping aside. When the guard leaned closer to inspect her, Dany shifted her pin in her hand and lifted her head. Before he could even blink, she lashed out with the shiv, swiping the blade across his throat. Shocked, he grabbed his neck, blood spurting through the gaps in his fingers. He tried to shout but coughed on his own blood, drops splattering on her face. As he dropped to his knees and slumped to the ground, she tossed off her shackles and crouched down beside him, wiggling the ring of keys from his belt. It took a few attempts, but eventually she found the one that unlocked the door, leading them inside the holdfast.

The opulent bedchamber where the king slept was empty, and Dany and Arya carried on past it to the Queen’s Ballroom. Once inside, they took the stairs to the gallery overhead. There, on a pedestal, enshrined in a simple glass box, sat the Targaryen family crown, a Valyrian steel circlet set with large square-cut rubies, nestled on a dark blue cushion.

Dany splayed her hand against the glass, hardly daring to believe the crown was actually within reach.

“Are you just going to stare at it, or can we go?” Arya asked impatiently.

Shaking herself, Dany tried to lift the glass case, but it didn’t budge. Arya looked around for something heavy, finding a small lion statue and handing it to her. _Fitting_. Without ceremony, Dany smashed the statue down on the glass, shattering the case. Brushing aside the glass shards, she gingerly grabbed the crown and lifted it off the cushion. The disjointed reflections of her face stared back at her, many times over, from the rubies’ facets.

Holding the crown, it didn’t feel quite as victorious as she had imagined it would.

Quickly, she undid her belt to loop it through the crown and secured it at her waist, then smoothed her shirt down over it, concealing it as best she could. When she turned around, Arya peered at her through Varys’ face, eyebrows raised in question.

“Should we head for the Dragonpit now?”

Dany shook her head. “Not yet. There’s just one more thing.”

* * *

Tyrion had Tysha stashed away in a turret in Chataya’s brothel on the Street of Silk. Arya had discovered the place when she’d been shadowing Varys, deducing Tyrion’s intentions to hide his wife there when Varys had visited the brothel to make arrangements with the owner. Unsurprisingly, there was a secret passageway into the turret from a stable not far from the Hill of Rhaenys.

Inside the turret, Tyrion, having decided to skip the tourney, was making up for lost time with his wife.

As Varys was probably the one who had first told him of the secret room in the brothel, Tyrion wasn’t too alarmed when the bald man emerged from the trick wardrobe, although he was a bit irritated at his accomplice’s unannounced appearance.

He was a bit more astonished, however, when Dany stepped out of the wardrobe behind him.

Shirtless, Tyrion jumped to his feet. “Varys! What the bloody hell is going on?” he blustered, red-faced and alarmed. Tysha cowered on the bed, sheets pulled up over her breasts.

In answer, Arya peeled off Varys’ face. Tysha screamed, and Tyrion went pale. “Y-you—you killed him,” he gasped, horrified. “His face…how...”

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” Arya murmured, bowing her head. The words seemed to have an effect on Tysha, who gave a jolt of recognition.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she whispered back, awed, and Arya smiled. Tyrion glanced at her, shocked, then back at Arya and Dany.

“Never heard of the Faceless Men before, I take it?” Dany said. “Understandable. They can be everyone, and no one. It’s very rare that they train women to be assassins, but Arya showed great promise, even as a child. Their work is quite prolific in Essos. I’m not surprised Tysha’s familiar with them.”

Color returned to Tyrion’s face, filling his cheeks. “How long—”

“Just a day or so. Since before the Dragonpit. I couldn’t risk anyone else finding out who I am,” Dany explained. “You understand.”

He swallowed. “I suppose you mean to kill me now.”

“I should,” she replied.

“I can pay you,” he offered hurriedly. “I can give you more gold than you could ever dream of.”

She frowned. “Now why would I ever trust a Lannister’s word again?” Shaking her head, she folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t want your gold.”

“There must be something you want,” he tried, desperate.

“The proof you promised me.”

He faltered, shoulders slumping. “I don’t have it. There’s no physical proof of Joffrey’s parentage, anyway—just my word.”

Dany smiled faintly. “And we already established your word means nothing.” Defeated, Tyrion sank to the bed. “So I guess we’re back to discussing your death.” He winced, and Dany continued, “I want to kill you.” She sighed, her eyes flicking to Tysha. “But for now, I shall let you live. It’s enough, getting to see your face the moment you realized I had bested you.”

He started, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“I still might. Eventually. When I decide I don’t have a use for you.” Dany held her hand out to Arya, who placed a single gold dragon in it. Then she flicked it at Tyrion, who fumbled to catch it. “I hope you don’t mind, but I kept a few of the coins you gave me. The ones with the Lannister sigil on the other side that prove they came from you. So unless you want your sister to know you commissioned The Dragons to commit treason against the crown on your behalf, I suggest keeping this between us.”

Tightening his jaw, he gave a stiff nod, but when she and Arya turned back to the wardrobe, he called after them. “What are you planning to do now?”

Dany stopped, shrugged. “Seeing as it’s a day of celebration, I’ve planned something special for your family.” With that, she nodded to Arya, who hoisted herself back into the wardrobe, quickly descending down the ladder. Dany followed, but before she closed the door after them, she looked to Tysha in earnest. “If you ever need a place to go, you can ask for me at the House of the Undying.”

At her implication, Tyrion’s face reddened with anger. Dany turned to him next, offering a final word of warning. “You might want to stay in this brothel for the next few hours.”

Before he could question why, she slammed the wardrobe shut, pitching them into darkness.

* * *

As Dany and Arya strode out into the Dragonpit, five guns took aim at them, hammers cocking as one. The moment they recognized their leader, however, they immediately lowered their weapons.

“About fucking time,” Jon said, though she could hear the current of relief in his voice.

“Had to take a brief detour,” Dany said in explanation, trying not to smile.

Arya stripped out of the heavy robes she wore as Varys, leaving her in a thin tunic and pants. “Bloody hell, those were hot,” she griped as she tossed the robes to the ground. Gendry seemed appreciative of the wardrobe change, lifting her in a hug. This time, Arya didn’t complain.

Removing the crown from her belt, Dany tossed it to Jon, who caught it one-handed. He eyed it appreciatively. “All that trouble for this? Kind of tacky, really,” he said, flashing her a lopsided grin.

“It is,” she agreed. “But I’m sure those rubies would fetch a _very_ generous price. Enough to upgrade our offices.” She reconsidered this. “Or buy a third building in Flea Bottom and convert it into an orphanage for the abandoned children of King’s Landing.”

Jon looked at her sharply, his gray eyes glinting with surprise and gratitude.

“An orphanage?” Missandei asked eagerly.

Dany nodded, smiling at her. “Sounds like a perfect job for you, don’t you think?” Her clever bookkeeper beamed at the offer. “Were you able to clear out the Red Keep?”

The five of them nodded. “As much as we could,” Gendry answered.

“Run into any trouble?”

Daario shrugged, touching his gun in his holster. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“Why did we need to come to the Dragonpit?” Grey asked, putting his arm around Missandei.

Dany’s response was simple. “Best view of the fireworks.”

Jon moved to her side, eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Wildfire?” he asked in a low murmur. She nodded, taking his hand in hers. In the week between their return to King’s Landing and the parley with Tyrion, Dany had Arya show her the secret tunnels under the Red Keep. From there, they eventually found the cellars that housed the forgotten dragon skulls from days long past—and the hidden jars of wildfire, just as Viserys had once described to her. She and Arya had left them undisturbed, but it was enough that Dany had seen them.

Closing her eyes now, she reached deep. She could picture the jars in her mind, the eerie green glow that emanated from the dusty, discolored glass. Jon squeezed her hand, and a hot flush ignited inside her, spreading fast. Sweat broke out on her face, under her arms, along her back. The green blazed brighter in her mind, flashing behind her eyelids. _The fire is mine_ , she thought, sucking in a deep breath. A small spark, then—

In the distance, an explosion rocked the city, a loud blast ripping through the air. The others gasped and whirled around. Against the sky, green flames and black smoke belched into the clouds high above the Red Keep. More explosions followed in rapid succession, and the massive drum-towers and iron ramparts began to crumble to the ground as the wildfire consumed them.

From atop the Hill of Rhaenys, The Dragons watched the destruction in wide-eyed, open-mouthed silence. Dany opened her eyes, panting and shaking, sweat soaking through her clothes. Her skin was hot to the touch, like it was on fire. She felt drained, but alive.

Jon was still watching her raptly, apathetic to the spectacle behind her. She lifted her gaze to his, and he smiled slowly, the green light dancing in his eyes. Placing the ruby crown on her head, he cupped her face in his hands and took her mouth in a kiss.

Oblivious, the others continued to watch in awe as the Red Keep fell, brick by brick.


End file.
